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V 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


YALE    VERSE 


COMPILED   BY 

ROBERT  MOSES,  '09 

Editor  of  the  Yale  Couraitt 
AND 

CARL  H.  P.  THURSTON,  '09 

Editor  of  the  Yale  Literary  Magazine 


NEW  HAVEN,  CONNECTICUT 

YALE    PUBLISHING    ASSOCIATION 
1909 


Copyright,  1909 

By  Yale  Publishing  Association 
(incorporated) 


The  Plimpton  Press  Norwood  Mass.  U.S.A. 


m 


SDebication 

"Mother  of  Men,  grown  strong  in  giving 
Honor  to  them  thy  Hghts  have  led; 
Rich  in  the  toil  of  thousands  living, 
Proud  of  the  deeds  of  thousands  dead, 
We  who  have  felt  thy  power  and  known 

thee, 
We  in  whose  work  thy  gifts  avail, 
High  in  our  hearts  enshrined  enthrone  thee, 
Mother  of  Men,  Old  Yale." 

W.  B.  Hooker. 


ni 


1839728 


FOREWORD 

Two  compilations  of  Yale  verse  have  been 
issued  in  recent  years,  one  in  1889  and  one 
in  1899,  and  both  were  favorably  received. 
The  last  ten  years  have  been  marked  by  a 
decided  improvement  in  undergraduate 
verse,  and  we  feel  that  no  apology  is  neces- 
sary for  offering  a  third  volume,  covering 
that  period.  We  have  tried  to  select  from 
the  undergraduate  publications,  the  Yale 
Literary  Magazine,  Yale  Courant,  Yale 
Record,  and  short-lived  Yale  Monthly,  and 
from  the  series  of  University  Prize  Poems  the 
best  verse,  regardless  of  subject  and  form; 
but  where  there  is  so  much  that  is  good  it  is 
difficult  to  choose,  and  we  must  plead  per- 
sonal taste  as  the  basis  of  many  final  deci- 
sions. We  regret  several  omissions  which 
are  due  to  the  loss  of  a  number  of  Courant 
files.  The  meager  representation  of  Record 
verse  calls  for  comment;  we  can  only  say 
that,  in  general,  it  seemed  too  topical  in 


FOREWORD 

character;    there    are    many    clever,    witty 
conceits  in  verse  form,  but  little  poetry. 

Our  thanks  are  due  to  Professor  Cook 
and  to  the  Editors  of  the  Literary  Maga(ine, 
Courant,  and  Record  for  permission  to  re- 
print the  poems  which  appear  here. 

The  Editors. 


VI 


CONTENTS 


Argalus   and    Parthenia G.  B.  Leicester 

Attila U.S.  Love  joy . 

"  As  From  the  Past " W.R.Benet     . 

Ballad  of  Boyhood  Bay,  A H.  A.  Plummer 

Ballad  of  King  Gradlon L.  C.  Frost   . 

Ballade  of  November,  A J.  H.  Wallis 

Ballade  of  the  Dreamland  Rose     .    .    .  A>ion.    .    .    . 

Ballade  of  the  Golden  Horn L.  Bacon  .    . 

Ballade  of  Myself  and  Monsieur  Rabelais  L.  Bacon  .    . 

Ballade  of  Other  Idols L.  Bacon  .    . 

Ballade  of  the  Prom,  A      Anon.    .    .    . 

Battell's  Chimes,  On O.H.  Cooper,  Jr 

Battle  Song  of  Attila R.  M.  Edmonds 

Beethoven R.  W.  Westcott 

Behind  the  Arras H.  S.  Lewis. 

Ben  Jonsoii,  To /.  N.  Greely 

Calling  of  the  River,  The E.  L.  Fox .    . 

Content J.N.  Greely 

Cradle  Song S.  M.  Harrington 

Daisies C.H.  P.  Thurston 

Death  and  the  Monk A.E.Baker.    . 

Death's  Head  at  the  Feast,  The  .    .    .  W.  B.  Hooker  . 

Dutch  Lullaby H.  A.  Plummer 

Echoes W.  B.  Hooker  . 


PAGE 
20 
98 

I2f) 
106 

99 
186 
188 

I 
26 

141 

104 

77 
128 

54 

25 

117 

105 

76 

184 

175 
79 

143 
82 


Vll 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Elizabeth Anon 130 

Epigrams R.T.  Kerlin     .    .  92 

Exit  Homo H.  S.  Lewis.    .    .  124 

Eye  of  My  Lord  The  King,  The     .    .   E.  L.  Fox  ....  151 

Father  Kileen H.  S.  Levels  ...  180 

Fishing  Song H.  A.  Webster  .    .  93 

Forgiven Anon 89 

Forgotten  Grotto,  A IF.  S.  Hastings    .  66 

From  the  City A.Updegraff    .    .  120 

Garden  Song W.  B.  Hooker  .    .  146 

Gun-Casting,  The H.W.  Stokes    .    .  42 

Hermit's  Prayer,  The G.  H.  Soiile,  Jr.  .  112 

Holiness R.  W.  Weslcott     .  88 

Ideal,  The A.  Updegraff    .    .  19 

Incense  Dance,  The T.  L.  Riggs      .    .  166 

In  Vagabond  Golden  and  Vagabond  Gray  S.  M.  Harrington  1 1  o 

*I.xion W.  B.  Hooker  .    .  5 

Japanese  Serenade W.  R.  Kinney  .    .  144 

Kamal  of  Isfahan A.  Updegraff   .    .  67 

Last  Ballade,  The T.  Beer     ....  162 

Last  Vagabond,  The      J.N.Greely    .    .  157 

Latest  Toast,  The R.  W.  Walker  .    .  86 

LTnconnu D.  Bruce  ....  73 

Line  Men,  The W.R.Bcnet.    .    .  loi 

Maeterlinck,  To J.  S.  Newberry    .  28 

Matin  Song E.  L.  Fox     ...  172 

Meed  of  Sorrow G.  H .  Sonic,  .Ir.  .  14S 

Meteor,  The H.W.  Stokes   .    .  97 

Mona  Lisa R.  Moses  ....  95 

viii 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Moon-Fairies :   .    .  E.K.  Morse  .    .  185 

♦Mother's  Sleep,  The C.  A.  Kellogg,  Jr.  48 

Never  Fear R.  Morris     ...  53 

Odysseus  at  Ogygia H.  S.  Lewis     .    .  63 

Old  Arcade,  The W.  R.  Walker  .    .  83 

Old  Library,  To  the S.N.  Holliday    .  18 

On  Seeing  the  Woodland  Players     .    .  /.  N.  Greely    .    .  24 

Parting  Word,  A E.L.Fox.    .    .    .  190 

*Passio  XL  Martyrum A.E.Baker.    .    .  131 

Pastoral R.  M.  Cleveland  .  183 

Pipe-Lighting  Time E.L.Fox     .    .    .125 

Puck,  to  Queen  Mab H.  S.  Lewis     .    .  23 

Rain-Swept  Garden,  The H.  S.  Lovejoy  .    .  30 

Ring  of  Gustavus  Adolphus,  The     .    .  H.  S.  Lovejoy  .    .  43 

Royal  Mail,  The E.  L.  Fox     ...  169 

Saint  Hubert    .    .    . H.  S.  Lewis     .    .  173 

(  Calypso    )  ,„„,,,  64 

♦Sonnets  I  ^^^P^^^  [ ^-^-Wkeeler.    .  ,^ 

Sonnet  to  John  Keats,  .A. L  Goddard    .    .    .  171 

Song  for  the  Even-Tide P.  T.  Gilbert    .    .  182 

(  Vivian's  Song )  ^,      ,  ,  .  31 

*Songs  I  R„,,,,,    .   '  [      C.B.  Hoichk^ss   .  ,^ 

Sprightly  Ballafl  of  Mistress  Molly,  The  R.  W.  Walker  .    .  38 

Toast,  A S.M.  Harrington  37 

Twilight  in  March      R.  Westcott   .    .    .123 

Villon  in  Prison H.C.  Robbins     .  159 

Voltaire  to  a  Young  Man B.  A.  Welch     .    .  90 

Wanderer,  The G.  H.  Soule,  Jr.  .  61 

Wandering  Jew,  The E.  L.  Fox     ...  107 

ix 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

When  Pine  Trees  Whistle W.Richardson     .  121 

When  Viziers  Speak H.  S.  Lewis     .    .  71 

Winter  Sea,  A W.Richardson     .  129 

Wooster  Square S".  A'^.  Deane     .    .  16 

Work-God,  The E.  L.  Fox     ...  34 

♦  University  Prize  Poem. 


CONTRIBUTORS 

PAGE 

Bacon,  L i,  26,  27,  188-189 

Baker,  A.  E 131-140,  i75-i79 

Beer,  T 162-165 

Benet,  W.  R 101-103,  126-127 

Bruce,  D 73-75 

Cleveland,    R.    M 183 

Cooper,  O.  H.,  Jr 104 

Deane,  S.  N 16,  17 

Edmonds,  R.  M 77-78 

Fox,  E.  L.       ...     34-36,   107-109,   117-119,  125, 

151-153,  169-170,  172,  190-191 

Frost,  L.  C 154-156 

Gilbert,  P.  T 182 

Goddard,  1 171 

Greely,  J.  N 24,  25,  105,  157-158 

Harrington,   S.   M 37.  76 

Hastings,  W.  S 66 

Holliday,  S.  N 18 

Hooker,  W.  B.      .      .       5-15,  79-82,  146,  147,  186-187 

Hotchkiss,  G.  B 31,32,  33 

Kellogg,  C.  A.,  Jr 48-52 

Kerlin,  R.  T 92 

Kinney,   W.   R 144-145 

Leicester,  G.  B 22 

xi 


CONTRIBUTORS 

PAGE 

Lewis,  H.  S 23,  54-60,  63,  71-72,  124, 

173-174,  180-181 

Lovejoy,  H.  S 30,  43-47,  98 

Morris,   R 53 

Morse,  E.  K 185 

Moses,  R 95-96 

Newberry,  J.  S 28,  29 

Plummer,  H.  A 106,  143 

Richardson,  W 1 21-122,  129 

Riggs,  T.  L 166-168 

Robbins,  H.  C 159-161 

Soule,  G.  H.,  Jr 61-62,  11 2-1 16 

Stokes,  H.   W 42,  97 

Thurston,  C.  H.  P 184 

Updegraff,    A 19,  67-70,  120 

Walker,   R.  W 38-41,  83-85,  86-87 

Wallis,  J.  H 99-100 

Webster,  H.  A 93-94 

Welch,  B.  A 90-91 

Westcott,  R.  W 88,123,128 

Wheeler,   A.   S 64,  65 


Xll 


BALLADE  OF   MYSELF  AND 
MONSIEUR   RABELAIS 

King  Henry  hath  his  amber  wine, 
And  Frank  of  Guise,  as  gossips  tell. 
Eats  every  day  a  capon  fine 
And  sneers  at  hock  and  hydromel. 
But  as  for  us  we'd  rather  dwell 
A  little  from  the  world  away, 
Although  we  love  its  cheer  right  well. 
Myself  and  Monsieur  Rabelais. 

Of  Panurge  on  the  restless  brine 
He  hath  a  jolly  tale  to  tell, 
Of  how  Gargantua  did  dine, 
Or  of  the  great  Pantagruel, 
And  what  adventure  him  befell, 
To  make  one  laugh  a  summer's  day. 
We  get  on  marvelously  well, 
Myself  and  Monsieur  Rabelais. 

Though  churchmen  rant  of  wrath  divine 
Or  Saint  of  Sales  our  doom  foretell. 


MONSIEUR   RABELAIS 

"Twill  all  come  right,"  as  we  opine, 
Though  Pope  or  Luther  burn  in  Hell. 
The  mystery  of  the  flask  to  spell 
Brings  better  hope  of  judgment  day, 
Which  comforts  both  of  us  full  well, 
Myself  and  Monsieur  Rabelais. 

ENVOI 

Prince!  in  strict  fact,  although  we  dwell 
Three  merry  centuries  away, 
We  hob  and  nob  surpassing  well, 
Myself  and  Monsieur  Rabelais. 

Leonard  Bacon. 


SOLVITUR  ACRIS  HIEMS 

Now  April  from  her  brimming  cup 

Hath  sprinkled  all  the  dusty  town; 
Once  more  the  open  cars  run  up 

And  down. 

Now  from  his  hoard  the  Freshman  brings 

Glad  raiment,  and  superbly  throws 
His  old,  unhappy,  cast-off  things 

To  Mose. 

And  now  delivered  from  the  gym 

The  clamant  coach  invokes  the  eight. 
With  vigor,  that  I  may  not  im- 
itate. 

For  sentiments  so  warmly  dressed, 

So  clothed  with  prefix  and  with  affix. 
Are  not  conveniently  expressed 

In  Sapphics. 

Deserted  now,  the  fire  that  gave 

A  friendly  glow  to  Temple  Bar 
Lies  smouldering,  like  a  Judges'  Cave 

Cigar. 

3 


SOLVITUR   ACRIS   HIEMS 

And  let  by  Pan's  alluring  pipe, 

You  hail  at  the  Savinian  Rock 
His  goat,  the  classic  prototype 

Of  bock. 

And  celebrate  —  we  did,  1  know, 

When  daily  themes  began  to  irk  us  — 
The  rites  of  that  lihidino- 

-sus  hircus. 

In  vain:  can  piety  recall 

The  flying  years?     Howe'er  we  boast, 
The  fatal  sheepskin  waits  for  all 

(almost). 

Labuntur  anni;  yes,  and  then 

Of  all  that  fame  and  fortune  seek 
Thrice  happy  he  who  earns  his  ten 

Per  week. 

— Ah!  happy  Sestius,  you  smile. 

Nor  need  1  wish  my  song  unsung; 
You've  guessed  my  moral:  Go  it  while 

You're  young. 

Charles  E.  Mhrrill,  Jr. 
4 


IX  ION 

My  wheel  turns  and  I  turn  unendingly 
Amid  the  wreck  of  souls  to  whom  remain 
No  hope,  no  wish  but  one  —  the  wish  to  die, 
The  longing  of  the  dead  to  die  again. 
The   sights    I    see  would  blast  an  earthly 

eye, 
The  horrors  I  hear  no  tongue  may  put  in 

words ; 
And  all  around  me  roars  the  rage  of  gods  — 
Turning  eternally  in  endless  pain. 

Above  me  a  great  blackness,  like  a  cloud 
At   midnight,   swaying  and   breaking  into 

bulks 
That  hurl  across  each  other  as  a  wind 
Drives  mass  on  mass  against  the  thunder- 
storm. 
Anon  it  opens  cavern-deep,  and  shows 
Behind,  dim  gulfs  of  greater  dark;  anon 
It    closes    inward,    smoothly    domed  —  no 
sound 

5 


IXION 

But  never  still.     Under  me  lies  the  floor 
Of  Hades,  ribbed  and  ridged  and  chiseled 

out 
In  curious  figures,  like  the  sand  of  the  sea. 
And  now  and  then  it  breaks,  and  Tartarus 
Flares  forth  in  flashes  of  pale  flame,  and 

screams 
Come  from  beneath,  and  crowds  of  shudder- 
ing sparks 
Rush  upward  as  in  terror;  then  a  surge 
Of   billowy  smoke,   tinged    red   with    fires 

below, 
Floats  up  and  merges  in  the  gloom  above, 
And  the  crack  bites  its  lip,  and  the  wails  are 

hushed, 
And  Hades  turns  to  its  own  toil. 

I  look 
Upward,  and  wonder  where  our  old  earth 

lies. 
How  far  beyond  that  veil  of  angry  dark  — 
Farther    1    know   than   heaven    above   the 

earth! 
Yet  I  am  linked,  bound  by  some  deathless 

chain 


IXION 

To  earth  and  life.     The  long  full  summer- 
time 
Faints  into  autumn,  and  the  wintry  blast 
Howls  down  the  wold,  but  wakes  no  answer- 
ing sign 
In  these  grim  skies  —  and  yet  I  feel  that 

frost 
Deep  down  within  myself.     I  feel  the  spring 
Steal  onward  with  warm  winds  and  blossom- 
ing smells, 
Pale   baby-leaves    and    breaths    of   hidden 

bloom. 
Somewhere  far,  far  above  me,  violets 
Grope  down  their  roots  in  the  soft  earth, 

and  turn 
Their  tiny  faces  to  the  sun,  and  smile 
Through  tears  of  dew  —  I  trod  on  violets 

once! 
Somewhere  a  wind  stirs  in  the  cypresses, 
And  the  owl  hoots  and  the  moon  pales  — 

I  once 
Held  death  in  scorn,  a  thing  too  far  to  fear. 
Somewhere  broad  roses  open  wide  at  eve. 
Bare  their  rich  bosoms  to  the  breeze  that 
faints 


IXION 

Caressing  them,  and  shake  their  leaves  and 

laugh, 
And  all  the  dimness  maddens  like  new  wine, 
And  nymphs  peep  out  between  the  boughs, 

and  songs 
Come  faint  across  dark  water  —  oh,  to  be 
One  moment  what  I  once  was!    Oh,  to  hear 
The  whisper  of  the  woods,  and  see  the  thorn 
Snow  down  her  sweetness  on  the  green,  and 

feel 
The  music  of  the  spring  beat  in  my  blood, 
And  the  fresh  odors  leap  into  my  brain. 
And  know  naught  ill,  a  child  with  a  child's 

eyes 
One  moment !    Once  1  deemed  myself  a  god. 
And  now  —  my  wheel  turns  on  unendingly 
Amid  the  wreck  of  souls  to  whom  remain 
Nor   life   nor   death  —  nor  death    nor   life 

have  1, 
The  very  spouse  and  paramour  of  pain! 

The  rage  of  gods!  —  What  are  the  gods  to 

me? 
I  have  moved  among  the  gods  a  mortal  man. 
Dwelt  with  them  on  Olympus,  felt  the  clouds 

8 


IXION 

Bend  to  my  footstep,  seen  the  sun  flash  by, 

A  bHnding  car  with  Helios  at  the  reins. 

I  have  seen  the  moon  close  by  me  in  the 

night. 
And  heard  the  singing  of  the  stars  at  dawn, 
I  half  awake  among  the  slumbering  gods. 
Do    I    not    know    them   wholly?     Ah,    my 

Queen 
Of  Heaven,  one  deathless  moment  mine  in 

spite 
Of  law  and  gods  and   Fate  —  have   I   not 

known? 
How  amber-bright  shine  all  those  distant 

days 
Even  to  my  dizzy  thought !     I  seem  to  see 
Amid  that  eddying  blackness  overhead 
Olympus  with  its  floors  of  gold,  its  walls 
Of  amethyst  and  opal,  shining  clear 
In   the  sweet   light   that   floats   above  the 

world ; 
And  round  the  board  the  faces  of  the  gods 
Glad  with  dark  wine,  as  1  beheld  them  first 
New    raised    among    them.     Zeus    dome- 
browed,  serene 
With  unresisted  empire,  hugely  calm 

9 


IXION 

Like  Ocean  —  yet  I  noted  even  then 

The  subtle  brands  of  fear,  —  the  drooping 

lip 
Behind  his  beard,  the  specter  in  his  look, 
That  marked  him  more  than  god  but  less 

than  man, 
Coward  omnipotence;  Athena,  bright 
With  panoply,  the  gorgon  Aegis  hung 
Before  the  f rory  splendor  of  her  breast ; 
Artemis,  white,  shadow-eyed,  tremulous; 
And  Aphrodite  born  of  sun  and  foam, 
That  bride-face  dewy-dim  with  tenderness, 
That  softly-yearning  esctasy  of  form, 
So  beautiful  her  beauty  made  me  faint, 
So  sweet  her  sweetness  almost  bent  my  will 
And  shamed  me  downward  to  humanity. 
Until    I    thought   of   Smyrna's   son  —  and 

laughed ; 
And  turned  to  where  She  sat,  my  goddess- 
queen, 
My  full-blown  Hera,  blooming  a  red  rose 
Amid  the  Olympian  lilies,  richly  dark 
With  congregated  sweet  —  and  saw  the  day 
Turn  summer  moonlight  in  her  dusk  of  hair, 
And  all  the  feverish  soutl;  pant  on  her  lip  — 

10 


IXION 

Thereafter  gods  and  men  1  held  in  scorn, 
Accepting  all  my  fate.     I  know  the  gods, 
Not  as  pale  priests  and  raving  oracles, 
Not  as  weak  women,  dazzled,  worshiping, 
But  as  a  strong  man  knows  a  stronger  man, 
Nor    fears    nor    worships    him  —  stronger 

than  I 
Or  else  I  were  not  here;  unearthly  fair 
Or  I  had  not  gone  mad.     Why  was  I  born 
A  spirit  greater  than  my  strength,  a  soul 
That  could  love  utterly  but  could  not  fear? 

Then  passed  long  days  of  calm  divinity, 

I  moving  on  unfaltering  in  my  will 

Void   of  all   fear  —  how  could    I    fear?     I 

loved  — 
Setting  against  the  wisdom  of  the  gods 
My   human    craft,    against    their   watchful 

sight 
The  flame  of  my  desire.    The  eye  of  Zeus 
Ranged  over  earth  and  heaven,  and  read 

the  hearts 
Of  men,  followed  the  courses  of  the  stars, 
And  bared  the  secrets  of  the  scheming  gods, 
But  saw  me  not.     And  at  the  last  we  met, 

1 1 


IXION 

Hera  and  I  —  night  on  the  Sacred  Mount 
Deep  with  the  stillness  of  eternity, 
The  stars  above  us,  and  beneath  our  feet 
A  great  storm  roaring  out  across  the  sea, 
A  pregnant  hush  all  round  us  —  face  to  face 
We  stood,  and  all  my  soul  rushed  out  in 

speech. 
I  know  not  what  I  said.     I  scarcely  knew 
I  spoke,  but  vaguely  wondered  at  the  sound 
Of  my  own  voice.     I  ceased.     And  then  — 

and  then 
My  goddess  melted  into  womanhood, 
My  Queen  bent  down  from  deity  to  me. 
Clung  in  my  arms  with  her  great  eyes  on  fire 
A  moment  —  then  our  lips  closed,  and  my 

heart 
Staggered  into  my  ears,  and  the  stars  went 

out. 
And  the  heavens  rocked  around  us,  and  the 

dark 
Grew  gleaming  green,  and  for  one  breath 

we  hung 
Poised  in  the  soul  of  a  great  emerald 
Shot  through  and  through  with  lightnings. 

Then  a  voice 

12 


IXION 

Amid  the  throbbing  blindness  of  my  brain, 
Calm,    small,    and    cold,    and    seeming   far 

away  — 
The  voice  of  Zeus. 

And  then  I  feared  him  not  — 
I  cursed  his  calm  face  while  they  bound  me 

here. 
Lord  Zeus,  the  jealous  husband!     Is  it  his, 
His  all  the  empire  of  the  spaces,  his 
The  joys,  the  woes  of  worlds?     I  know  you, 

gods  — 
Thieves,  perjurers,  adulterers  are  ye  all. 
Hark  to  my  supplication,  blessed  ones! 
I  would  stretch  forth  my  hands,  but  they 

are  bound  — 
Hear    my    repentance  —  in    thy    teeth,    O 

Zeus, 
The  scorn  of  him  thou  hatest! 

Was  it  my  sin, 
Beautiful  gods,  to  know  you  overwell? 
What  have  I  done  that  others  have  not  done 
As  ill  or  worse  —  Sisyphus  the  arch-thief 
Heaving  his  stone  with  groanings  up  the 

height 

13 


IXION 

Endlessly,  foiled  and  mocked  at  the  very 

goal  — 
What  is  the  labor  of  men  but  such  as  his? 
Tantalus  the  god-soiler,  grasping  at 
The  vain  fruit,  stooping  to  the  falling  wave. 
Teased  into  madness,  laughing  hideously  — 
What  is  the  pleasure  of  men  but  such  as  his? 
They  but  relive  their  lives.    I  turn  and  yearn 
Bound,  futile,  helpless  body  and  brain  — 

no  task 
However  vain,  no  joy  in  sight  to  seek 
However  vainly  —  only  round  and  round, 
And   every   passive   limb   is   strained    and 

stung; 
Still  round  and  round;  and  all  my  thought 

grows  drunk 
With  motion  never  ending,  and  the  dark 
Is  full  of  horrid  eyes  that  whirl  like  wheels 
And  whirling  wheels  that  glare  like  horrid 

eyes, 
On  every  wheel  a  dumb  Ixion,  bound 
And  bleeding,  longing  for  the  lashing  flames 
Of  Tartarus  that  smother  sense  in  shrieks. 
And  all  the  wild  wheels  whisper  as  they 

whirl, 

•4 


IXION 

A    sound    like    kisses  —  and    the    whisper 

grows ; 
And  Hades  rocks  and  totters  to  the  sound, 
And  swells  and  orbs,  a  globe  of  tremulous 

gloom. 
And  shatters  into  whirling  nothingness. 

My  wheel  turns  and  1  turn  unendingly 
Amid  the  wreck  of  souls  to  whom  remain 
No  hope,  no  wish  but  one  —  the  wish  to  die, 
The  longing  of  the  dead  to  die  again. 
The  sights  I  see  would  blast  an  earthly  eye, 
The  horrors  1  hear  no  tongue  may  put  in 

words ; 
And  all  around  me  roars  the  rage  of  gods  — 
Turning  eternally  in  endless  pain. 

William  Brian  Hooker. 


15 


WOOSTER  SQUARE 

The  sunshine  yet  on  Wooster  Square 

Is  bright  as  years  and  years  ago; 
The  elms  are  taller,  greener  there: 

But  Fashion's  favor  changeth  so! 

The  glooming  Grecian  portico, 
The  ancient,  marred,  much-trodden  stair 

Forgets  the  days  of  long-ago, 
Forgets  the  days  of  Wooster  Square. 

The  old  white  church  in  Wooster  Square 
Where  godly  people  met  and  prayed  — 

Dear  souls!  they  worship  Mary  there, 
Italian  mother,  man  and  maid 
In  gaudy  Southern  scarfs  arrayed; 

The  horrid  candles  smoulder  where 
The  godly  people  met  and  prayed. 

Alas!  the  fall  of  Wooster  Square! 

Before  the  war,  in  Wooster  Square 

The  carriages,  they  went  and  came; 
The  common  folk  used  wait  and  stare, 

i6 


WOOSTER   SQUARE 

They  bowed  to  beauty  and  to  Fame. 

And  then  it  ceased  to  be  the  same; 
The  doors  are  tarnished  all  and  bare 

Where  shone  each  old  .Colonial  name 
Departed  now  from  Wooster  Square. 

0  Fashion,  fled  from  Wooster  Square   ■ 
And  tripping  fast  up  Prospect  Hill 

Where  orioles  flame  through  fragrant  air, 
Where  daisies  light  the  roadside  still, 
What  was  it  changed  your  flighty  will. 

What  fickle  fancy  made  you  care 
To  take  the  way  of  Prospect  Hill, 

To  leave  the  walls  of  Wooster  Square? 

Be  done,  he  done,  with  tiresome  rhymes! 
I  go  with  Fortune  and  the  Fair, 

1  owe  no  love  to  bygone  times  — 

Peace  to  the  shades  of  IVooster  Square! 

Sidney  N.  Deane. 


17 


TO  THE  OLD  LIBRARY 

Our  fathers  drank  of  knowledge  in  thy  halls, 
And  Time  hath  sanctified  thy  memory: 
In  reverential  tones  they  speak  of  thee. 
We  too  have  learned  to  love  thine  ivied 

walls, 
We  love  each  blessed  ivy-leaf  which  falls ; 
And  think  of  those  who  planted  long  ago 
The  parent  vine  —  of  those  who  watched  it 

grow. 
And  still  thy  mantled  dignity  enthralls. 
And  in  our  hearts  our  love  shall  ever  dwell, 
Though    unknown    hands    shall    rend    thee 

stone  from  stone, 
And  though  thy  site  with  weeds  be  over- 
grown. 
May  thy  successor,  newly  risen  the  while, 
Inspire  our  sons,  and  always  serve  as  well 
As  thou  hast  served.    Farewell,  beloved  pile! 
Samuel  N.  Holliday. 


18 


THE   IDEAL 

Brother  in  hope,  if  you 

Should  ever  pierce  our  empyrean  through; 

And  find  that  radiant  star, 
Whose  beams  we  have  not  seen,  yet  know 
they  are; 

Say  that  I  loved  it,  too, 

But  could  not  climb  so  far. 

Allan  Updegraff. 


19 


ARGALUS  AND   PARTHENIA 

Scarce  had  the  echoes  of  my  bugle  note 
Died  on  the  air,  when  down  across  the  moat 
The  drawbridge  clanged,  the  portal  opened 

wide. 
And  Kalander,  the  seneschal,  1  spied. 
With  men-at-arms  drawn  up  in  full  array 
To  greet  a  friend,  or  keep  a  foe  at  bay. 
Across  1  spurred,  and  hailed  the  varlet  thus: 
"Tell  me,  good  fellow,  of  Lord  Argalus; 
Has  he  fared  forth  to  join  his  liege,  the  King, 
Or  tarries  he,  to  hear  the  news  1  bring 
Of   foes    in  field,   and    need  of   his  strong 

arm. 
While  love's  sweet  murmurs  deafen  war's 

alarm?" 
(God  grant  the  day  be  long  ere  any  bride 
So  damp  my  courage,  or  subdue  my  pride!) 
"My  lord's  within,  nor  has  he  yet  fared 

forth 
To  war  against  the  paynims  in  the  North. 
So  do  but  follow  to  the  ample  bower 

20 


ARGALUS   AND    PARTHENIA 

Where  sits  my  lord,  in  yonder  ivied  tower, 
And  his  sweet  mistress  bears  him  company." 
"Then  stay,  good  Kalander,  and  let  me 
see. 
All  unannounced,  this  fondly  loving  pair." 
The    tower    I    reached,    and    climbed    the 

winding  stair; 
Then  paused  before  the  doorway  as  I  heard 
A  sweet-toned  voice  that  rivaled  any  bird 
Warbling  its  morning  song  in  forest  green. 
The  curtain  gaped;  I  peered  in  on  a  scene 
That  seemed  to  me  like  Heaven  come  to 

Earth, 
A  glimpse  of  Paradise  before  the  hearth: 
There  sat  Lord  Argalus,  with  book  on  knee, 
Reading  the  tale  of  Hercules;  and  she, 
The  fair  Parthenia,  gazing  on  his  eyes, 
Staying  him  oft  with  question  or  surmise; 
To  be  resolved  of  doubt,  far  less,  methought. 
Than  that  it   gave  her  joy  when-e'er  she 

caught 
His  tender  glance  that  flashed  a  message 

sweet ; 
Eye  answered  eye,  and  bliss  was  then  com- 
plete. 

21 


ARGALUS   AND   PARTHENIA 

Warming  a  heart  I'd  long  thought  dead  and 

sere, 
This  picture  slowly  made  its  meaning  clear: 
He  joyed  in  her;  she  in  herself,  from  this: 
She  knew  him  hers;  but  more,  that  she  was 

his. 
No  want  one  knew  but  that  it  straight  was 

filled; 
Nor  was  desire  by  satisfaction  killed. 
Each  giving  of  his  store,  their  riches  grew; 
One  life  with  double  strands  they  made  of 

two. 

******* 
Long  stood  I  there;  my  eyes  grew  dim  with 

tears; 
Too  plain  I  saw  the  line  of  barren  years 
Devoid  of  love,  with  self  the  only  goal: 
Bitter  regret  and  longing  filled  my  soul; 
And  ere  I  entered  to  disturb  their  bliss 
The  burden  of  my  throbbing  heart  was  this: 
"God  grant  the  day  come  soon  when  such  a 

brtde 
Fills  me  with  courage  and  exalts  my  pride!" 

Gerald  B.  Leicester. 


22 


PUCK,  TO  QUEEN   MAB 

Ods  Pitkins,  he  who  at  rhymes  is  a  dab 
Never  would  dare  write  a  verse  to  Queen 

Mab. 
The  words  would  seem  empty,  the  slow 

meter  wrong; 
For  she  is  herself  an  ethereal  song. 
A  song?    Nay;  a  chorus  of  cupids  petite! 
The  soloist  blushing,  her  rounded  lips  sweet. 
A  wonderful  melody  soundeth  each  cheek; 
When  pale,  in  a  sad,  solemn  music  they 

speak. 
But,  Mab,  only  blush,  and  there  tumbles 

along 
The  jolliest,  rollicking,  frolicking  song. 

Harry  S.  Lewis. 


23 


ON   SEEING  THE   WOODLAND 
PLAYERS 

Musing  I  sit  with  half  closed  eyes.   The  play 
Is  finished  and  the  sound  of  clapping  dies, 
When,  lo,  before  me  sunny  Arden  lies. 
Alluring  bright,  as  on  an  olden  day. 
I  hear  her  young  voice,  Rosalind  the  gay. 
And  I  am  young.     I  sigh  for  Jacques'  sighs; 
And  now  I  laugh  with  Touchstone,  and  my 

eyes 
Are  wet,  with  mirth  or  grief  I  cannot  say. 

And  while  I  muse  the  wind  that  moves  the 

trees 
Sings,  sighs,  and  laughs  in  sympathy  with 

me. 
How  like  the  Poet  is  this  vagrant  breeze 
That   moves   the   trees   to   music   wonder- 
fully — 
And  now  they  laugh,  now  drink  unto  the  lees 
Of  grief ,  and  all  in  wondrous  harmonv- 

J.  N.  Greely. 
24 


TO   BEN  JONSON 

'TwERE  good,  above  a  jovial  cup, 
Amongst  the  merry  throng. 

To  hear  thy  great  voice  lifted  up  — 
The  laughter  of  thy  song. 

Thy  fate,  O  Ben,  was  wondrous  kind. 

Thy  fame  has  lasted  long; 
For  still  in  musty  books  men  fmd 

The  laughter  of  thy  song. 

J.  N.  Greely. 


25 


A   BALLADE  OF  OTHER   IDOLS 

I 

Hail!  Astarte  of  far  Phoenice, 

Hail!  O  Dagon,  the  Shammothite, 

HaiL'  O  Rulers  of  Golden  Greece, 

Splendid  gods  of  the  sun  and  the  light  — 

Ye  who  were  strong  and  brave  and  bright, 

Who  has  taken  your  strength  away? 

"We   may    not    say    who    has    shorn    our 

might  — 
Other  idols  men  love  to-day." 

II 

Keels  that  sundered  the  Danish  seas 
Are  gone  with  the  galleys  of  Sidon's  might, 
And  the  wealth  of  the  Golden  Chersonese 
Is  lost  in  the  fathomless  mid-sea  night. 
The  gates  of  Carthage  are  gray  with  blight. 
And  lepers  inhabit  their  decay. 
Baal  and  Moloch  have  taken  flight  — 
Other  idols  men  love  to-day. 

26 


BALLADE   OF   OTHER   IDOLS 


For  higher  merchantmen  master  the  seas, 
And   the   lands   are   Hnked    together  with 

light, 
And  the  newer  gods  make  the  new  decrees. 
As  they  rein  the  world  with  a  newer  might. 
And  still  men  drain  their  days  of  delight, 
Forgetful  when  other  men  shall  say, 
After  their  greatness  is  naught  and  night: 
"Other  idols  men  love  to-day." 

ENVOI 

Prince,  we  hold  it  is  meet  and  right 
That  ever  from  age  to  age  they  say. 
As  they  front  the  dawn  or  salute  the  night: 
"Other  idols  men  love  to-day." 

Leonard  Bacon. 


27 


TO  MAETERLINCK 

Weaver  of  dreams  like  cloudy  tapestries, 
With  runic  symbols  curiously  wrought, 
Half-guessed  at  in  the  gloom,  the  mystic 
keys 
That  guard  strange  treasuries  of  secret 
thought; 

Painter  of  haunted  gardens  gray  with  time, 
Dark,  dreamy  forests  stretching  to  the  sea, 

Grim    castles    blackened    by    unwhispered 
crime. 
And  lifeless  marshes  palled  with  mystery; 

Singer  of  moonlight  music  that  disparts 
The  dim,  strained  silence  of  the  summer 
night 

With  passion  too  intense  for  human  hearts, 
And  horror  shuddering  itself  from  sight; 

The  sense  of  fugitive,  forgotten  things 
Stirs  through  the  twilight  beauty  of  thy 
bars, 

28 


TO   MAETERLINCK 

Strange  gleams  of  knowledge,  as  of  hidden 
springs 
That  seep  their  way  through  fresh  arbu- 
tus stars. 

Far  oflF  we  hear  the  full  sea's  pulsing  beat, 
Through  all  his  lofty  oaks  the  wood-god 
mourns, 
We  dare  not  look,  lest,  in  the  dark,  we  meet 
The  awful  eyes  of  the  unhurried  Norns. 

J.  S.  Newberry. 


29 


THE  RAIN-SWEPT  GARDEN 

The  heavy  drops  on  the  canna's  leaf 

Linger  a  moment  ere  they  fall, 
Spattering  on  the  mould  beneath. 

The  spider's  web  by  the  crumbling  wall 
Scarce  bears  on  its  fme-spun  silken  guys 

The    strain    of    its    trembling    burden's 
weight. 
From  the  sodden  earth  gray  mists  arise, 

Enshrouding  the  trees  with  a  ghostly  state. 

The  blossoms  droop  on  their  curving  stalks; 

The    bedraggled    birds    on    the    sinking 
boughs 
Sit  silent  and  shiv'ring;  the  gravel  walks 

Are  muddy   streams   between   bordering 
sloughs 
Of  tangled  grass  and  pasty  earth. 

Nature  lies  resting  under  a  pall 
Ere  in  the  beauty  and  strength  of  new  birth 

She  rises  to  answer  the  bright  sun's  call. 

H.  S.  LOVEJOY. 

30 


VIVIAN'S  SONG 

O,  THE  fields  are  green  with  a  silvery  sheen, 

Where  the  dew  besprinkled  lies; 
And  violets  peep  from  their  dreamy  sleep, 

With  shrinking,  half-shut  eyes. 
'Tis  morn !  Tis  morn !  Come  wind  the  horn ! 

Let  laughter  echo  long, 
And  melody  float  from  every  throat, 

For  life  is  all  a  song! 

The  courser  champs  his  bit,  and  stamps; 

The  boar-hounds  fret  their  chains; 
The  beagles  bay  at  the  long  delay, 

And  the  hooded  falcon  strains. 
Sluggards,  arise,  and  rub  your  eyes, 

Cloyed  with  your  honeyed  sleep! 
The  deer  in  the  brake  are  seeking  the  lake, 

And  the  hares  from  the  covert  leap. 

Come,   mount   your   steed,    nor   check   his 
speed, 
Strong  for  the  chase  and  fleet; 

31 


VIVAN'S   SONG 

Across  the  fields,  the  grass  scarce  yields 

To  the  touch  of  his  flying  feet. 
The  breezes  smite  till  your  eyes  grow  bright, 

And  the  blood  in  your  cheeks  is  rife; 
Then  you  feel  a  glow  at  your  heart,  and 
know 
That  to  live  is  the  joy  of  life. 

George  Burton  Hotchkiss. 


32 


RONDEAU 

He  wrote  her  rimes  and  roundelays, 
And  hymned  his  love  in  divers  vv'ays; 

"  Dear  heart,"  he  sang,  "  I  love  but  you, 

1  love  you  ever,  love  you  true; 
You  are  the  light  of  all  my  days." 

She  blushed  beneath  his  ardent  gaze, 
Her  young  soul  thrilled  with  sweet  amaze; 
Untaught  till  then,  she  never  knew 
A  poet's  love. 

She  little  guessed  that  all  his  praise, 
His  burning  words  and  passioned  phrase. 
Were  given  to  many  another,  too. 
For  out  of  art  his  amours  grew; 
And  tend'rest  verse  ofttimes  displays 
A  poet's  love. 

George  Burton  Hotchkiss. 


33 


THE  WORK-GOD 

From  the  iciest  bergs  of  the  Northland 

Mid  the  realms  of  eternal  snow 
To  the  placid  streams  of  an  Eden 

Where  the  Regia  lilies  blow; 
From  the  East,  where  the  Sultan's  millions 

Bow  down  at  the  muezzin's  call, 
To  the  West,  where  the  ringing  hammers 

Forever  rise  and  fall; 
Wherever  the  Four  Winds  journey, 

Wherever  the  Earth's  brown  face 
Is  mottled  and  blotched  and  teeming 

With  the  Ants  of  the  Human  Race, 
Wherever  Man's  Love  of  Conquest 

Has  led  Man's  Foot  to  stray, 
Lord  over  his  Hands  and  the  Sweat  of  his 
Brow 

The  Work-god  holds  his  sway. 

He  bides  in  the  heat-swept  foundry 
Mid  the  breath  of  the  molten  steel 
And  guides  the  naked  striking-arm 

34 


THE   WORK-GOD 

With  a  touch  it  cannot  feel. 
He  enters  the  soul  of  the  Artist 

With  Nature's  beauties  rife, 
And  lo,  the  Painted  Bosom 

Heaves  with  the  Breath  of  Life. 
He  stands  at  the  Seaman's  elbow 

When  the  lightning's  fitful  gleam 
Lays  bare  the  teeth  of  the  Sisters  Three 

And  pales  the  Home  Light's  beam. 
He  touches  the  brain  of  the  Statesman 

Charged  with  a  nation's  cares, 
And  clears  the  eye,  and  calms  the  mind, 

That  guard  the  State's  affairs. 

The  creeds  of  Mohammed  and  Buddha 

May  be  marked  by  a  race  or  a  clime; 
Their  beginnings  and  ends  are  known  by 
Men, 

And  are  pricked  on  the  Chart  of  Time. 
But  behold  the  Creed  of  the  Work-God 

Is  the  Creed  of  Forever  and  Aye; 
It  began  with  the  World's  Creation, 

It  will  end  with  the  Judgment  Day. 
'Twas  the  Creed  of  the  Grecian  galley  slave 

As  he  strained  at  the  ashen  oar; 

35 


THE  WORK-GOD 

'Tis  Creed  to-day  of  the  engineer 

When  the  thundering  drive-wheels  roar. 

It  heeds  not  Race,  nor  Color, 
Nor  Birth  nor  Boundary  Line, 

For  the  Yankee  is  kin  to  the  Malay 
At  the  step  of  the  Work-god's  Shrine. 

E.  Lyttleton  Fox. 


36 


A  TOAST 

Come,  fill  your  cups  but  once  again! 

Toast  the  lasses 

Ere  time  passes: 
Lift  them  high  and  clink  your  glasses ! 
We  meet  no  more  till  who  knows  when? 

While  these  friendship  days  ye  boast, 

Days  of  singing, 

Voices  ringing, 
Fleeting  days  all  gladness  bringing, 
Ere  they're  gone,  come,  drink  this  toast! 

To  a  little  laughing  maid. 

Drooping  lashes. 

Brown-eyed  flashes. 
Hearts  a-tied  with  her  own  sashes, 
Maiden  daring,  half  afraid! 

Come,  fill  your  cups  but  once  again ! 

Toast  the  lasses 

Ere  time  passes: 
Lift  them  high  and  clink  your  glasses! 
We  meet  no  more  till  who  knows  when? 

S.  M.  Harrington. 
37 


THE  SPRIGHTLY   BALLAD  OF 
MISTRESS   MOLLY 

'TwAS  back  in  the  Reign  of  the  good  Queen 

Anne 
When   the   vogue  of   the   Gentleman   Wit 

began, 
When  trouble  with  Spain  was  beginning  to 

brew, 
And  the  bucks  sat  at  Ombre  the  whole  night 

through, 
That   the   portly    Lord   Clive   brought    his 

daughter  to  town 
To  offer  her  royal  respects  to  the  Crown. 
Such,  at  least,  was  his  Lordship's  ostensible 

reason, 
But  since  they  had  lodgings  engaged  for  the 

Season 
A  whisper  was  started,  which  spread  with 

despatch, 
That  they  came  rather  hoping  to  make  a 

fine  Match. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  she  was  duly  presented 

38 


MISTRESS   MOLLY 

Resplendent  in  Satin,  patched,  powdered, 

and  scented. 
Till  even  her  vain  little  heart  was  contented. 
Then  she  sparkled  at  Levee,  Ridotto,  and 

Ball, 
Was  ogled  by  many,  but  out  of  them  all 
To  whom  should  this  silly  Maid's  favor  be 

shown 
But  an  Ensign,  with  never  a  groat  of  his  own. 
Twas  amazing,  and  so  thought  her  choleric 

Sire, 
Who  denied  him  admittance  with  threaten- 

engs  dire. 
And  ('tis  hard  to  believe,  but  the  gossips 

all  swear  it). 
Hurled  straight  at  his  head  a  half-bottle  of 

Claret, 
And  offended  two  guests,  who  expected  to 

share  it. 
'Twas  a  delicate  Scandal,  a  Morsel  most  rare 
For  the  Wits  and  the  Dowagers  everywhere. 

But  the  Season  rolled  on  as  all  town  Seasons 

do. 
And  the  tale  was  forgot  in  a  fortnight  or  two, 

39 


MISTRESS  MOLLY 

For   Miss   Molly,    uptilting   her  pert   little 

nose, 
Still  smiled  and  made  eyes  at  a  score  of  the 

Beaux, 
And  as  for  the  luckless  young  Ensign,  'twas 

said 
No  thought  of  him  lodged  in  her  gay  little 

head. 

But  one  night,  or  to  speak  more  correctly, 

one  morning, 
As  home  from  a   Ball  in   the  gray  of  the 

dawning 
Went  fair  Mistress  Molly,  just  outside  the 

town 
Her  Chair  was   attacked,   honest   Terence 

knocked  down. 
Stout   James  and   the  Link-boy  belabored 

most  soundly. 
While  they  bawled  for  the  watch  till  they 

fell,  cursing  roundly, 
And  Miss  Molly,  I  learn  from  the  very  best 

Source, 
Carried  off  in  a  Coach  by  —  the  Ensign,  of 

course. 

<  40 


MISTRESS  MOLLY 

Then  indeed  all  the  Town  was  agog  with 

the  tale, 
And,    "O    Lud,"    cried    the    Ladies,    and 

promptly  turned  pale. 
While  the  Wits  chuckled  heartily  over  their 

Ale. 

But  as  for  Milord,  when  they  told  him  the 
News, 

First  he  swore  at  his  men  till  they  shook  in 
their  shoes, 

And  then,  "Damme,"  cried  he,  after  think- 
ing a  bit, 

"I'll  be  cursed  but  I  love  the  young  Dog 
for  his  wit." 

Raymond  W.  Walker. 


4' 


THE  GUN-CASTING 

In  the  furnace-glare  the  anvils  rang 

With  an  ever  reechoing  rattle  and  clang, 

Where  the  hot  metal  gleaming 

With  bright  flashes  streaming, 

As  on  it  the  ceaseless  hammers  sang, 

Made  sound  everlasting. 

Prepared  for  the  casting, 

The  molten  steel,  like  Vesuvian  flood. 

In  the  dusky  caldron  seethed  and  glowed. 

They  swung  it  over  the  gaping  mould, 

Massively  yawning  dark  and  cold, 

And  the  liquid  lightning, 

Their  tense  faces  brightening, 

Slid  over  the  edge,  and  cracking  rolled 

Downward.     Now  the  iron  lips 

And  flaming  throat  of  the  caldron  drips 

A  fiery  slaver.     All  around 

Sputter  the  sparks.  —  With  booming  sound 

The  metal  bubbles  beneath  the  ground. 

Horace  W.  Stokes. 
42 


THE  RING  OF  GUSTAVUS  ADOLPHUS 

Within  his  tent  the  Gold  King  of  the  North 
Sat  feasting;  merry  bits  of  Swedish  songs 
Or  solemn,  deep-toned  hymns  of  Germany 
Broke  forth  in  turn  and  trembled  on  the  air 
Till  shouts  of  laughter  drowned  their  melody. 
An  hundred  torches  flaring  in  their  racks 
Cast  on  the  warrior's  arms  a  dancing  light 
And   reddened    their   fair  hair   and   flaxen 

beards. 
A  noble,  near  the  entrance,  raised  the  flap 
And  gazed  into  the  night;  then,  "See!"  he 

cried, 
"The  North  Wind  holds;  for  Sweden  that 

bodes  good. 
Success  awaits  us!     Lord,  I  drink  to  thee! 
Gustavus!   Hail,  Gustavus,  hero-king! 
'Cum  Deo  et  victricibus  armis!'" 
The  king,  with  eyes  alight  and  fair  cheeks 

flushed. 
Sprang  smiling  to  his  feet.     "My  friends," 

he  cried, 

43 


GUSTAVUS   ADOLPHUS 

"I    thank  you.     If  your  arms  be  but   as 

strong 
As  your  good-will,  I  fear  no  Wallenstein, 
We  shall  prevail.     1  have  a  talisman 
That,  while  I  keep  it,  shields  me  from  all 

harm. 
When  Gustav  Vasa  at  the  Mora  Stone 
Took  oath   to  free  our  Sweden   from   the 

Danes, 
A  priest,  the  last  who  served  the  old  Norse 

gods, 
Gave  him  a  ring  on  which  in  ancient  runes 
Was  graven  deep,  '  Great  Odin  grants  to  him 
Who  wears  this  ring  long  life  and  sure  suc- 
cess 
As  long  as  he  is  just  and  merciful.' 
From  sire  to  son  this  talisman  has  passed 
A  precious  heirloom  for  our  race,  preserved 
By  mercy  and  by  justice  in  our  rule." 
Gustavus  ceased  and  fumbled  at  his  throat. 
"My  lords,"  he  said,  "you  shall  behold  the 

ring 
That  fights  for  me  and  guards  my  very  life 
As  long  as  1  am  'just  and  merciful.'" 
But  suddenly  there  burst  into  the  tent 

44 


CUSTAVUS   ADOLPHUS 

A  soldier  with  bound  hands  and  naked  back; 
He  pushed  his  way  among  the  startled  lords 
And  threw  himself  before  the  angry  king. 
"Oh  wise  and  gracious  sovereign,  pity  me; 
Look  at  these  wounds  I  gained  in  serving 

you. 
The  suppliant  raised  his  head.     "As  you  are 

just 
I  pray  you  give  me  justice,  my  dread  king." 
Gustavus,  red  with  sense  of  injured  pride, 
Indignant  for  his  interrupted  tale, 
Disdained  the  soldier  kneeling  at  his  feet. 
"Seize  him  and  drag  him  forth  to  punish- 
ment," 
He  bade  the  guards  who  waited  at  the  door. 
"And  in  addition  to  the  sentence  passed 
Give    him    a    score    of    lashes    with    your 

thongs; 
Presumption  such  as  this  deserves  no  less." 
The  soldier  slowly  rose  to  his  full  height 
And  stared  into  the  hard  eyes  of  the  king 
That  flashed  with  thousand  points  of  chilly 

steel. 
"Oh,  most  just  king,"  he  said,  and  then  he 
laughed, 

45 


GUSTAVUS   ADOLPHUS 

"Most   cruel    rather   than   most   just,"   he 

sneered. 
Wrath  choked  the  king;  he  swayed  upon  his 

feet 
And  whispered  to  himself  in  maddened  rage; 
Then  frantically  he  tore  his  doublet's  throat 
And    thrust    his    trembling   hand    into   his 

breast. 
A  moment  thus  he  stood  while  o'er  his  face 
There  spread  an  infinite  astonishment 
That  gradually  congealed  to  numbing  fear; 
A  weakness  seized  his  limbs  and  pulled  him 

down. 
"The  ring!"   he  gasped.     "The   ring  that 

Odin  gave! 
The  ring  that  guards  my  life  and  brings 

success  I 
'Tisgone!  I've  lost  it!  I  have  lost  my  ring!" 
Then  as  he  sat,  the  Lion  of  the  North, 
His  great  head  bowed  between  his  mighty 

hands, 
There  stole  into  the  tent  a  filmy  mist; 
It  thickened  and  became  a  heavy  fog 
That,    rolling  on   before   the  damp   South 

Wind, 

46 


GUSTAVUS   ADOLPHUS 

Hung  o'er  the  field  of  Lutzen  like  a  pall 
And  stole  between  the  king  and  all  his  lords 
Until  he  seemed  a  shadow  of  himself, 
A  dim,  gigantic  ghost  that  wept  and  wept. 
And   muttered   ceaselessly,   "My  ring,   my 
ring." 

H.    S.    LOVEJOY. 


47 


THE   MOTHER'S  SLEEP 

I 

Soft-borne    and    drowsy,    muffled    in   the 

dark, 
The    sheepfold's     tinkhng     rises;    in    long 

notes 
The  cowherd  drones  his  call;  and,  floating 

faint 
From  a  distant  hilltop,  horn-blasts  swell  and 

die. 
The  oaks  have  ceased  their  rustling  and  are 

still. 
Save  for  the  dreamy  twittering  deep  within. 
In  heaven  the  little,  lonesome  clouds  are 

pale 
With  wandering,  and  nestle  to  their  rest, 
Unhoused.     All  garish  lights  are  hid,  and 

night 
Is  kindling  soft-flamcd  watch-fires  o'er  the 

Earth. 
Closing  her  weary  eyes,  and  drawing  close 

48 


THE   MOTHER'S   SLEEP 

Her  darkling  robe,  the  Earth  breathes  soft 

and  sighs, 
And  sinks  asleep.     1  would  that  I,  too,  slept. 

II 

O  would  that  I  might  sleep 

And  dream  like  the  Mother  dreaming; 
So  wondrous  calm  and  deep, 

A  sleep  that  is  past  our  deeming! 

We  close  our  gloom-pressed  eyes; 

Our  souls  are  for  ever  waking. 
We  couch  our  limbs,  and  rise 

With  hearts  that  are  ever  aching. 

And  all  our  wish  is  rest. 

Short  rest  and  a  little  slumber. 

That  we  may  fight  our  best 

Through  battles  that  have  no  number. 

Ill 

The  sleep  of  the  Mother  is  dewy  and  soft, 
And  balms  from  her  breath  arise 

As  sweet  as  the  honey-flowered  locust  aloft, 
And  fresh  as  the  morn-streaked  skies. 

49 


THE   MOTHER'S  SLEEP 

Her  bosom  is  calm,  and  her  breathing  is  still 
And  soft  as  the  sea-breeze  blows; 

But  deep  in  her  breast  is  a  wondrous  thrill 
Like  that  in  an  unblown  rose. 

And  all  through  the  dark  swells  the  joy  in 
her  breast 

To  burst  with  the  rose-rimmed  light 
In  bird-caroled  paeans  of  joy  for  her  rest, 

And  joy  for  her  fresh-limbed  might. 

The  lovely-haired  goddess  all-radiant  springs 
To  greet  with  a  song  the  morn; 

"The  toils  of  the  ages  are  nothing,"  she  sings, 
"Then  hail  to  the  toils  unborn!" 

IV 

Great  Mother,  may  it  be 

That,  when  the  life-springs  cease  flowing 
And  men  return  to  Thee, 

They  enter  that  sleep  past  knowing? 

A  sleep  which,  full  and  strong, 
is  deep,  yet  prepares  a  waking; 

For  though  the  night  be  long 
The  morn  will  again  be  breaking, 

5" 


THE  MOTHER'S  SLEEP 

And  we  shall  have  our  rest, 

Sweet  rest  and  a  welcome  slumber, 

And  rise  to  fight  our  best 

Through  battles  that  have  no  number. 

V 

The  Earth  sleeps  on.     The  sheepfold  now  is 

hushed ; 
No  horn-blast  wakes  an  echo;  all  the  birds 
Are   mute   and   dreaming  —  save   the  owl, 

whose  notes, 
Forlorn  and  querulous,  bemoan  her  lot 
Of  outcast.     Cradled   on    the   sky's   broad 

breast 
Float  still  the  cloudlets,  now  not  pale,  but 

topped 
With    shade,    and    downy-bosomed.     Star- 
fires  wane; 
The  eastern  heaven  is  filled  with  liquid  light ; 
And  lo,  the  great-eyed  moon  upthrusts  her 

head 
Above  yon  hill  and  stares  across  to  this. 
Softly  she  cometh  —  not  to  wake  but  watch 
The  Sleeper.     Slow  she  mounts  and   peers 

below. 

51 


THE  MOTHER'S  SLEEP 

The  darkness  melts   and  passes  from  the 

vales ; 
The  meadow-lands  are  mellowed  in  the  light; 
Even   the   grim    and   black-browed   forests 

smile, 
Grow  radiant,   and   drink  deep   the  silver 

flood. 

Charles  Alexis  Kellogg,  Jr. 


52 


NEVER   FEAR 

It's  cozy  we  are  in  the  hut,  Tim, 
Lie  still  now,  ye  might  steal  a  nap, 
For  what  is  the  thunder  to  us  then, 
With  you  cuddled  up  in  my  lap? 

The  lightning  is  chasing  the  witches, 
Peering  'round  every  boulder  and  tree! 
What's  that?     Is  it  thunder  you're  fearing? 
Faith,  the  thunder  falls  in  the  sea! 

It's  the  spirits  are  quaking  to-night,  Tim, 
Not  good  folks  like  you  and  me. 
For  it's  witches  the  lightning  is  after. 
And  the  thunder  falls  in  the  sea! 

Ray  Morris. 


53 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS 

A  CHRISTMAS  MASQUE 

( Yvrel,  a  damosel,  and  Noel,  a  page,  speak 
in  this  wise  seated  in  a  tapestry-hung  corner 
of  the  Kings  great  Hall.) 

YVREL 

What  star  has  given  thee  its  care, 
My  Noel,  and  has  made  thee  fair? 

NOEL 

Hark!    With  antic  and  with  mow 
They  drag  the  Yule  block  in;  and  now 
The  pompous  steward  tells  them  how. 

What  star  has  watched  since  I  was  born? 
'Tis  Mercury:  that  Christmas  morn 
There  came  a  warlock  to  declare, 
"Vain  Mercury  shall  make  him  fair, 
•     And  he  quicksilver  shall  be  e'er." 

He  shook  his  cane,  —  one  of  those  staves 

54 


BEHIND    THE   ARRAS 

Of  yew  cut  from  adult'rers'  graves,  — 
And  added,  "The  red  cock  shall  sing 
Twice  seven  Christmas  nights;  then  he 
This  babe,  the  heart  that  most  will  cling 
To  him,  will  break  by  vanity." 

The  rascal  lied ;  I  am  to  you 
As  leal  as  angels,  and  as  true. 

{In  the  hall  sounds  the  peasants'  Yule  Log 
song.  Noel,  careless  of  Yvrel's  troubled  face, 
listens  to  the  song.) 

CHORUS  OF  PEASANTS 

The  Yule  log,  the  Yule  log, 

It  be  where  fays  do  dwell. 

From  out  their  house  pell  mell 

They  flicker  in  a  noisy  crowd. 

I  heard  one  stammering  aloud, 

"By  Mary,"  quotha,  "Mistress  Spark, 

Our  good  log  house  is  cracking:  hark! 

The  flame  folk  beckon  through  our  wall, 

Come,  Mistress  Spark,  away.     They  call." 

{A  page  enters  with  tankards.  The  peasants 
sing.) 

55 


BEHIND    THE   ARRAS 

Here  comes  the  ale 

With  a  flagon  for  me, 

And  another  for  thee, 

To  the  good  King;  hail! 

Wench  Marian, 

With  the  beggar  man, 

And  a  wand'ring  mime  beside. 

All  giggle  and  wink 

With  a  sinkful  o'  drink, 

For  'tis  the  Christmas-tide! 

{The  peasants  exeunt.     Yvrel  speaks.) 

YVREL 

Dear  Noel,  I  believe  you  true. 
You've  sworn  on  Christmas  eve  to  do 
Aught  1  might  bid;  to  break  the  spell 
Of  Barbarossa;  or,  through  Hell, 
Clean  to  the  Nadir  ride,  and  bring 
Me  up  the  trident  of  its  king. 

Last  night  the  Princess  promised  me 

As  a  novice  to  the  nunnery; 

Which,  once  a  year,  'mid  Christmas  sport, 

Is  given  a  maiden  of  the  court. 

Let's  on  thy  Father's  wild  chateau! 

56 


BEHIND    THE   ARRAS 


NOEL 

Oh  sweet  Yvrel,  I  love  you  so 
That,  saving  thee,  mayhap  I'll  go 
To-night  and,  — 

{There  breaks  in  a  chorus  from  masquers 
assembling  in  the  great  hall.) 

CHORUS 

Hurl  not  the  mace 

Nor  couch  the  lance. 

In  stately  grace 

Thy  ladies  dance. 

Hence,  —  rude  steel  case. 

Hence,  —  war  horse  prance, 

Each  lovely  face 

Now  doth  advance. 

Thy  gaze  we  hold 

By  sinuous  fold 

Of  silks  and  lace. 

We'll  thee  entrance. 

Come,  lest  we  scold, 

Be  gay,  be  bold. 

57 


BEHIND    THE   ARRAS 

Come !  Come !  Take  place. 
Come!  Join  the  dance. 

{hloel  continues,  excitedly  peering  forth  at 
the  gathering  group.) 

NOEL 

We'll  flee,  perhaps,  upon  the  morrow. 
Take  cheer,  like  me;  nor  trouble  borrow. 
These  carols,  wassail,  boisterous  fun. 
Take  all  to-night;  without  ME  none 
Of  all  the  sports  were  rightly  done. 

YVREL 

The  nun's  damp  veil  fills  mc  with  dread, 
I  hate  it;  I  were  better  dead. 
Oh  sweet,  to-morrow  is  too  late. 
For,  by  thy  sunny  dear  brown  head, 
These  nuns  will  seize  me  if  we  wait. 

NOEL 

It  is  a  pity.     Well,  —  I  pray 

That  you'll  be  abbess  there  some  day. 

Were  honor  or  thy  life  in  need, 

58 


BEHIND    THE   ARRAS 


I'd  save  thee,  by  death-daring  deed. 
But  peaceful  is  the  nunnery, 
And  pleasant  there  thy  life  will  be. 
1  love  you,  but  — 


YVREL 

You  love  me  not ! 
Oh  God,  how  piteous  is  my  lot! 

NOEL 

Now,  now!    Weep  not,  poor  little  maid. 

Upon  the  long  wolf-haunted  way 

I  fear  you  would  be  sore  afraid. 

And  weary,  weary,  never  gay 

Is  life  on  Father's  wild  bleak  moors. 

Wouldst  have  ME  a  dull  boor  of  boors? 

When  here  at  court  — 

{He  looks  eagerly  around  the  hall,  and  con- 
tinues), 

See,  only  see ! 
There's  Corisant  of  Telivit, 
His  doublet  hath  a  villainous  fit! 
Saw'st  how  my  new  hose  fitted  me? 
Come,  dry  these  tears.     Like  me,  scorn  woe. 

59 


BEHIND    THE   ARRAS 

List,  there  the  hautboys  sound,  I  go. 
Chuck,  one  last  kiss;  for  I  loved  thee. 
The  dance  begins;  dear  heart,  I  go. 

{As  he  departs  the  dancer  s  song  begins.) 

CHORUS 

Who  loveth  not  smacking 
And  Burgundy  wine 
Anon  may  go  packing, 
He  ne'er  shall  be  mine. 
My  love,  — 

{They  continue  the  song;  whilst  Yvrel,  seeing 
Noel  begin  the  dance  with  a  fair  maid,  sinks 
down  on  a  stool,  with  frightened  sobbing.  A  nun 
enters  the  hall,  and  looks  about  it  inquiringly.) 

Harry  S.  Lewis. 


60 


THE  WANDERER 

"Oh  tell  me,  tell  me,  have  you  seen 

A  girl  go  by  this  way? 
Her  eyes  are  deep  as  if  from  sleep 

She  half-awakened  lay;   . 
Her  hair  floats  golden  in  the  breeze 

Around  her  radiant  face, 
As  if  the  sun,  his  journey  run, 

Had  lingered  for  a  space 
To  fondly  kiss  a  last  good-night 

And  rest  him  from  his  race. 

"Her  dress  flew  lightly  in  the  wind 

And  singing  did  she  pass. 
Wandering  slow  as  faint  airs  blow. 

Across  the  bowing  grass, 
Through  the  deep  field,  and  up  the  hill. 

And  down,  against  the  sea. 
As,  burning  red  around  her  head. 

The  sun  drooped  lovingly, 
Making  a  halo  of  her  hair. 

And  drew  her  far  from  me. 

6i 


THE   WANDERER 

"  I  breathed,  and,  following  on  her  path, 

I  saw  a  western  star 
Trembling  with  light  rise  in  the  night  — 

And  though  she  seems  so  far 
Sometimes  1  listen  and  I  hear, 

I  faintly  hear  her  sing; 
When  golden  rays  burn  into  days 

I  peer  at  everything  — 
Sometimes,  beyond  a  grove,  I  see 

Her  garments  fluttering. 

"Oh  tell  me,  tell  me,  have  you  seen 

A  girl  go  by  this  way? 
Her  eyes  are  deep  as  if  from  sleep 

She  half-awakened  lay; 
Her  hair  floats  golden  in  the  breeze 

Around  her  radiant  face, 
As  if  the  sun,  his  journey  run. 

Had  lingered  for  a  space 
To  fondly  kiss  a  last  good-night 

And  rest  him  from  his  race." 

George  H.  Soule,  Jr. 


62 


ODYSSEUS  AT  OGYGIA 

Against  the  evening  sky  with  arms  out- 
stretched to  welcome  me, 

Above  the  long  grass-waving  slope,  she 
stands.  —  Penelope? 

Ah,  no;  why  must  my  thoughts  of  Ithaca 
befool  me  yet? 

It  is  Calypso.  Fond  old  eyes,  you  evermore 
forget. 

Calypso's  warm  moist  kiss  and  salt  tears 

mingle  on  my  lips. 
And  yet  I  fancy  I  again  am  with  the  tossing 

ships. 
Dim  land  is  seen;  my  face  is  flecked  with 

wind-flung  briny  foam; 
The  oars  bend  nigh  to  breaking,  as  we  near 

the  long  sought  home. 

Harry  S.  Lewis. 


63 


CALYPSO 

High  on  a  crag  above  the  restless  sea 
In  weary  woe  Calypso  waiting  stands, 
Forever  stretching  out  her  long  thin  hands, 
A  mute  embodiment  of  agony. 
The  last  light  fails,  the  wet  winds  rise,  but 

she  . 
Hopes  on,  with  haggard  eyes  like  burning 

brands 
Searing   the   darkness,   while   the   loosened 

strands 
Of  all  her  wondrous  hair  float  wildly  free. 
Forgotten  are  the  dreams  of  other  days, 
Her  soul  is  flame,  her  parted  lips  are  dry. 
The  languorous  noonings  in  the  dark  cool 

caves 
Were  centuries  ago.     How  long  he  stays! 
Her  fate  is  fixed,  a  goddess  cannot  die, 
And  ah,  the  ceaseless  beating  of  the  waves! 

Arthur  Stanley  Wheeler. 


64 


NAUSICAA 

The  skies  o'er  Scheria  are  always  blue 
Because  of  one  fair  presence  on  the  isle, 
One  heart  that  knows  nor  evil  thought  nor 

guile, 
A  maiden  ever  innocently  true. 
No  aftermath  of  rosemary  and  rue 
Is  thine,  Nausicaa.     No  lurking  wile 
Lies  hid  beneath  the  charm  of  that  swift 

smile 
That  fades  as  lightly  as  it  lightly  grew. 
Thy  lamp  once  shed  a  soft  and  silvery  beam 
Athwart  the  Wanderer  from  overseas, 
Who,  tasting  bitterly  his  soured  lees, 
Forbore  to  mar  thy  delicate  pure  dream, 
And,  so  departing,  left  the  lily-maid 
A  memory  to  cherish  unafraid. 

Arthur  Stanley  Wheeler. 


65 


A   FORGOTTEN   GROTTO 

The  loves  of  gods  of  other  days 

Still  gleam  moss-covered  on  thy  walls, 

The  fountain  that  still  laughing  plays 
Spatters  thy  marble  as  it  falls 

In  rainbows  through  the  golden  haze. 

And  yet  —  was  that  the  whispering  breeze? 

I  seemed  to  hear  the  dryads  laugh, 
The  sound  of  clicking  hoofs  as  flees 

The  satyr,  followed  close  by  half 
A  swarm  of  wanton,  pillaged  bees. 

The  sunlight  dies,  the  zephyrs  fan 

The  hillsides  with  the  breath  of  wine; 

And  fresh  as  when  the  gods  began 

Come  wood-notes  weird  and  half  divine, 

The  gayly  calling  pipes  of  Pan. 

W.  S.  Hastings. 


^ 


KAMAL  OF   ISFAHAN 

So  still  he  sat,  and  watched  the  end  of  day 
Fade,  like  an  angel's  smile,  away. 

So  breathed  he  deep,  and  stared  into  the 
bays 
Where  clouds  hung  at  their  starry  quays. 

And  every  distant,  scintillant  hint  of  fire 
Rhymed  with  his  heart's  desire; 

And  every  meteor,  red-tinged  of  hell, 
Screamed,  Azyavel! 

Could  I  but  crush  her  mouth  with  mine,  he 
said. 
Till  the  lips  dripped  red! 

Could  I  but  bend  her  body's  sinuous  grace 
To  one  love-mad  embrace! 

Too  rare  her  lips,  he  said,  for  the  poor  king, 
And  her  deep  bosom's  bourgeoning; 

Though  she  be  his,  and  all  her  glories'  dower. 
Can  such  a  moth  suck  such  a  passion-flower? 

67 


KAMAL   OF  ISFAHAN 

So  is  the  fool  less  happy  even  than  I 
Whose  soul  has  cried  the  exceeding  bitter 

cry; 
Whose  heart,  long  immolate  on  her  beauty's 

pyre,  . 

Her   hair   enmeshes    round    like   white-hot 
wire! 

The  nightingale,  he  sang,  bleeds  for  the  rose; 
His  breast  impaled  upon  her  cruellest  thorn, 

He  sings  till  morn; 
And  this  his  torture  — not  his  breast  all  torn: 
To  breathe  the  fragrance  that  abroad  she 

blows 
To  all  alike,  unheeding  of  his  throes. 
And  death-singing! 
Oh,  this  his  torture:  that  she  never  knows, 
And  cannot  know,  and  cannot  know. 
His  life-blood  ebbing  throe  on  throe, 
And  death-singing! 

From  the  embrasure  of  a  broken  cloud 
Looked   Ramazan's  wan   moon  on    Kamal 
bowed ; 

68 


KAMAL   OF   ISFAHAN 

Lit    Ramazan's   wan    moon    a    gray-burnt 

land, 
And  one  crouched  figure  in  the  wastes  of 

land. 

And  shadows  marked  the  lonely  watcher's 

place, 
And    crawled,    'neath    clouds,    across    the 

desert's  face; 

And  where  the  purple  edge  of  dark  began, 
Buttressed  the  ghostly  walls  of  Isfahan. 

A  sudden  shape,  whose  gray  the  moon  made 
white, 
Grew  from  the  gradual  night; 
And    straight    and    swift    o'er-slipped    the 
noiseless  sand. 
As  one  full-planned ; 

And  neared  the  bowed  man,  and  went  slow, 

more  slow. 
And  stealthily  as  wild  things  go; 
Then  crept  upon  him,  caught  with  short, 

fierce  cries 
His  head  and  throat,  and  covered  mouth 

and  eyes. 

69 


KAMAL  OF   ISFAHAN 

Kill   then!   he  gasped.     Strike   home!  and 

God  approve! 
Came  the  quick  answer:  Nay,  not  death  — 

but  love! 


And  swooned  away  the  purple-pulsed  night, 

And  morning  sprent  the  sky  with  rose-leaf 

light. 

Allan  Updegraff. 


70 


WHEN   VIZIERS  SPEAK 

Along  the  streets  of  rich  Bagdad, 
In  gold-embroidered  silks  yclad, 
With  glittering  cavalcade  doth  ride 
The  caliph  Haroun  Alraschide 
(Alrashid's  good,  but  Alraschide 
Is  just  as  good,  and  rhymes,  beside.) 
The  grand  vizier  beside  him  paces. 
The  caliph  speaks  of  well-known  faces 
And  things  which  greet  him  everywhere. 
"That  beggar  woman  over  there, 
I've  seen  when  out  in  some  disguise, 
For  ten  years,  anyway.     She  cries, 
'  For  Allah's  sake  an  alms,  kind  one. 
At  home  there  starves  my  new-born  son.' 
'Twill  take  a  long  while,  at  this  rate. 
To  grow  as  old  as  we,  and  great." 
The  vizier  smiled  and  bowed  his  head. 
"You  jest,  milord,"  was  all  he  said. 
As  they  were  passing  by  a  harem, 
"  I'd  like  to  peek  in  there,  and  scare  'em," 
The  caliph  said.     The  vizier  titters, 

V 


WHEN    VIZIERS   SPEAK 

"He,  he,  ha,  ha,"  in  sparrow-twitters. 
On  steeds  with  dainty  trappings  scented. 
On  warriors  old,  Haroun  commented; 
On  frying  pans  and  porticoes, 
On  donkeys'  ears,  and  slave  girls'  toes. 
And  ever  the  vizier,  bowing  low. 
Quoth  in  mild  tones,  "  Yea,  sire,  'tis  so." 
The  caliph  cleverly  proposes 
A  diet  to  cut  off  Christians'  noses. 
Old  questions  argues,  like  a  Guelph, 
And  often  contradicts  himself. 
The  silent  vizier  by  his  side 
Looks  most  exceeding  edified. 
At  last  he  ventures  to  suggest 
Which  kind  of  scimiter  is  best. 
The  caliph  spoke  on  building  jails. 
And  on  the  pseudo  Sunna  tales. 
A  half  an  hour  passed  by,  and  then 
The  vizier  dared  to  speak  again. 
The  caliph's  face  in  anger  flamed, 
"Thou  dog,"  he  wrathfully  exclaimed, 
"Scarce  can  1,  when  within  your  clutch, 
Hear  my  own  thoughts;  you  talk  too  much!" 

Harry  S.  Lewis. 


72 


L'INCONNU 

Amid  the  dungeon's  stifling  gloom  he  lay,  — 
A  white-haired  prisoner;  his  beard  unkempt, 
His    tattered    garments,    and    his    wasted 

frame, 
Told  of  long  years  of  solitude.     Above, 
A    narrow    loop-hole    pierced    the   massive 

wall. 
And  through  it  fell  a  sunbeam,  pallid,  thin. 
Across  whose  path,  marked  by  the  dancing 

motes. 
Wavered  a  single  fly  in  aimless  flight, 
Buzzing  a  dreary  monotone.     Faint  gusts 
Of  far-off  shouting  and  the  echoing  call 
Of  bugles  drifted  through  the  narrow  cleft. 
Breaking  the  wonted  silence  of  the  cell. 
Yet  still  the  prisoner  unheeding  lay. 
Watching  the  sunlight,  as  it  slowly  crept 
Along  the  dungeon  wall  to  where  were  cut 
Rude  characters,  half  legible  and  dim. 
Deep    carven    in    the    blackened    stone,  — 

crude  shift 

73 


L'INCONNU 

To  tell  the  passing  of  the  leaden  hours. 
Hard  by  the  mark  which  told  the  hour  of 

noon 
Three  words  were  graven,  —  and  the  sun- 
beam stole 
Yet  nearer,  nearer,  till  at  last  it  reached 
The  first  and  flooded  it  with  golden  light:  — 
" Fraterntie":  the  old  man's  dying  gaze 
Grew  more  intent,  —  faint  came  the  whis- 
pered words: 
"Ah,  brother,   —  brother, — Jacques,  my 

brother,  —  you 
Had  sworn  — "     Breath  failed. 

The  shouting  from  without 
Grew  louder,  fiercer,  mingled  with  the  boom 
Of  cannon,  and  the  rumbling  crash  and  roar 
Of  battered,  falling  masonry.      The  sun 
Touched  now  the  second  word:  " Egalite"; 
And  straight  the  weary  eyes  were  lit  with 

joy. 

And  then  grew  dark  with  pain.     "Marie,  — 

Marie,  — 
Are  all  your  smiles  for  him,  —  and  this  for 

me? 
We  loved  together,  Jacques  and  I,  we  fought 

74 


L'INCONNU 

And  toiled  as  one,  Marie,  —  are  all,  —  are 

all 
Your  smiles  —  for  him  —  and  this  — "  The 

whisper  died. 
No  longer  through  the  narrow  loop-hole  came 
The  shouting,  but  with  ever  fiercer  din. 
And  clash  of  steel  on  steel,  through  the  thick 

door 
Of    massive    oak,    cross    bound    with    iron 

straps. 
And  now  the  letters  of  the  last-carved  word 
Are   touched    with   gleams   of   gold,  —  'tis 

"Liberie." 
The  tired  eyes  grow  brighter  as  they  gaze, 
Then  fade  in  death.     A  rush  of  heavy  feet 
Down  the  long  corridor.     Shrill  screams  the 

door 
Upon  its  rusty  hinge.     The  cell  is  filled 
With  men  in  arms,  all  wet  with  sweat  and 

blood, 
Their  eyes  aflame  with  light  and  victory. 
And  through  the  vaulted  passage  rings  the 

cry: 

"Liberie!  EgaliU!   Fraternite!" 

Donald  Bruce. 
75 


CRADLE  SONG 

Oh,  the  silver  bow  of  the  moon  hangs  low, 

Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep! 
And  the  starlight  glow  is  guarding  thee,  so 

Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep! 
Sleep,  while  murmuring  waters  flow. 
And  summer  grasses  are  waving  slow  — 
Sleep,  while  night  winds  softly  blow, 

Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep! 

Oh,  the  trees  stretch  high  in  the  bending  sky, 

Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep! 
And  the  swift  fire-fly  is  moving  by, 

Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep! 
Sleep,  while  elves  their  dream-lathes  ply! 
Sleep,  while  swaying  tree-tops  sigh. 
And  lingering  zephyrs  breathe  and  die, 

Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep! 

S.  M.  Harrington. 


76 


BATTLE  SONG  OF  ATTILA 

Rise,  ye  Huns,  to  fire  and  plunder! 

Let  the  passes  vomit  forth 
Clouds  of  horsemen  —  rumbling  thunder 

Rolling  from  the  frozen  North! 

See  the  blackened  trail  behind  you! 

Bloody  light  stains  all  the  skies. 
Where  is  law  to  check,  to  bind  you?  — 

Clans  of  Attila,  arise! 

See  the  palfrey  and  the  litter! 

Women  are  these  men  of  Rome, 
(Silken-curtained,  all  aglitter), 

Softened  by  their  tropic  home. 

Through  the  dust  the  legions  glimmer; 

Tinsel  bulwark  of  Rome's  might,  — 
Clustered  spears  and  helms  ashimmer,  — 

Burnished  eagles  gleaming  bright. 

Cleave  them,  Huns!  Lovv'  couch  your  lances! 

Toss  on  high  your  spray  of  blades ! 
See,  the  Hunnish  wave  advances. 

Pauses,  bursts,  then  floods  the  glades. 

77 


i 


BATTLE   SONG   OF   ATTILA 

Romans,  where  is  now  your  splendor?  — 
Vanished  in  the  smoke-dimmed  sky.  — 

Homage,  now,  ye  slaves  must  render:  — 
Foes  of  Attila  must  die! 

RoLLAND  M,  Edmonds, 


\ 


78 


THE  DEATH'S-HEAD  AT  THE  FEAST 

Ye  glorious  sons  of  Egypt's  royal  race, 
Look   on    this   quiet   guest    that   shrouded 

lies. 
Once  pain  and  joy  disturbed  that  peaceful 

face; 
A  woman's  lips  once  pressed  those  buried 

eyes. 
As  he  did  once,  drink  deep  thine  earthly 

bliss  — 
Yet  a  few  years   and   thou    shalt   be  like 

this. 

In  crimson  cloud  slow  sinks  the  hot,  red 

sun; 
The  glassy  Nile  refloats  the  ruddy  gleam 
And  faint  sweet  songs  across  the  shadows 

run 
Where  slumber-closed  the  lotos  lilies  dream. 
The  world  is  beauty  —  death  a  dark  abyss. 
Yet   a  few  years   and   thou   shalt   be  like 

this. 

79 


THE   DEATH'S-HEAD    AT    THE   FEAST 

The  eager  heart   that   leaps   against   thine 

own, 
Her  eyes  on  thee  hke  darkhng  fires  that 

shine, 
The    tremulous    joy    that    throbs    through 

blood  and  bone  — 
But  for  a  little  while  these  things  are  thine. 
Take  while   thou  may'st  that  poppy-laden 

kiss  — 
Yet  a  few  year^  and  thou  shalt  be  like  this. 

The  mighty  guardians  of  the  outer  vast  — 

Osiris,  Isis,  Horus  and  the  rest  — 

Ere  thy  first  breath  ordained  and  knew  thy 

last. 
Shall  woman-born  escape  their  dread    be- 
hest? 
The  bow  is  drawn  —  nor  shall  that  arrow 

miss. 
Yet  a  few  years  and  thou  shalt  be  like  this. 

Then  crown  the  bowl!     Let  pour  the  laugh- 
ing wine 

And  song  and  laughter  ring  from  hall  to 
hall! 

80 


THE  DEATH'S-HEAD    AT    THE   FEAST 

Thine  age  is  mortal;  make  tliy  youth  divine, 
For  this  grim  banqueter  doth  say  to  all: 
"Thine  is  the  hour.   Thine  own  the  moment 

is  — 
Yet  a  few  years  and  thou  shalt  be  like  this!" 

W.  B.  Hooker. 


8i 


ECHOES 

A  BLAST  of  thunder  broke  above  the  world 
And  all  the  mountains  huge  and  hoar; 

Reverberant  grandeur  down   their  valleys 
rolled 
In  answering  roar  on  roar. 

A  red  star  shone  upon  the  midnight  main; 

And  in  the  hollow  of  the  flood 
Out  of  the  dark  its  image  forth  again 

Flashed  like  a  drop  of  blood. 

The  breath  of  violets,  blown  by  wandering 
airs, 
Came  soft  across  the  waving  lea; 
And  all  my  heart,  stormed  by  a  thousand 
cares, 
Laughed  with  the  thought  of  thee. 

W.  B.  Hooker. 


82 


THE  OLD  ARCADE 

A  QUAINT  old  type  of  a  bygone  time, 

A  lordly  home  in  the  golden  days, 
But  now  a  mark  for  the  idle  rhyme. 

Lost  in  the  web  of  the  city  ways, 
It  stands,  unseen  by  the  passing  eyes. 

Hard  pressed  by  the  endless  rush  of  trade, 
But  proudly  its  graceful  columns  rise, 

For  haughty  still  is  the  Old  Arcade. 

Time  was  when  its  high-arched  walls  were 

gay 

With  laughing  voices  and  flirt  of  fans. 
When  gallant  gentlemen  rode  that  way, 

And  lovely  ladies  in  gay  sedans. 
And  many  a  summer  afternoon 

The  old,  old  game  of  hearts  was  played. 
And  lovers  begged  for  a  lover's  boon 

On  the  vine-clad  porch  of  the  Old  Arcade. 

And  oft  when  the  diamond  panes  were  bright 
With  the  glow  of  the  candle-light  within, 

83 


THE   OLD    ARCADE 

The  great  rooms  echoed  with  laughter  Hght, 

And  the  low,  sweet  drone  of  the  violin; 
While  red  lips  tempted  and  soft  eyes  shone, 
And  the  walls,  now  flaunting  a  curt  "To 
Let," 
hooked  down  through  the  hours,  till  night 
was  gone. 
On  the  swaying  grace  of  the  minuet. 

But  those  days  passed  this  many  a  year, 

And  now  —  alas,  for  its  ancient  pride! 
For  trade  and  traffic  are  rumbling  near, 

And  the  great,  white  door  which  opened 
wide 
To  birth  and  breeding  and  fortune  high, 

To  stately  squire  and  gracious  dame. 
Now  beckons  to  every  passer-by. 

And  gleams  with   a   tradesman's   sordid 
name. 

But   they  say  by  night,  when  the  town's 

asleep. 
The  quaint  old  shades  drift  back  once 

more. 
Softly  their  ancient  revels  keep 

84 


THE   OLD    ARCADE 

And  dance  till   dawn  on   the  crumbling 
floor 
To  the  faint,  sweet  wraith  of  an  old-time 
tune; 
And  then  for  a  space,  till  the  candles  fade, 
And  the  last  strains  waver  and  fall  —  too 
soon  — 
Happy  again  is  the  Old  Arcade. 

Raymond  W.  Walker. 


85 


THE  LATEST  TOAST 

Now  rank  and  beauty's  all  agog; 

The  very  last  sensation 
Has  just  arrived  from  Warwick  way,  — 

Sir  Gay's  obscure  relation, 
Who's  come  to  take  her  first  sweet  sip 

Of  London's  dissipation. 

Last  week  at  Lady  Bolton's  Drum 
She  made  her  first  appearance, 

And  all  the  beaux  were  smitten  straight 
Almost  to  incoherence. 

Her  gown  was  gay  with  knot  and  lace, 
But  quaintly,  sweetly  simple, 

And  on  her  check  a  huge  black  patch 
Quite  covered  up  the  dimple. 

"Perfection,"  quoth  that  oracle, 
The  haughty  Lord  Dalrvmple. 

For  she  has  such  a  fetching  way 
Of  glancing  down  demurely, 

86 


THE   LATEST    TOAST 

And  such  a  saucy,  pouting  mouth, 
'Twould  charm  the  gravest,  surely. 

So  all  the  gallants,  to  a  man. 

Protest  she's  wondrous  sprightly; 

At  Brook's  and  White's  and  all  the  Clubs 
They  pledge  her  blue  eyes  nightly, 

And  vow  she  reigns  in  old  Mayfair, 
Quite  properly  and  rightly. 

So  rank  and  beauty's  all  agog. 

For  London's  last  sensation 
Has  just  arrived  from  Warwick  way,  — 

Sir  Gay's  obscure  relation. 

Raymond  W.  Walker. 


87 


HOLINESS 

Now  am  I  glad,  after  the  accurate  day 
Has  brightened  into  certainty  some  shades 
Of  doubt,  that,  as  among  those  moon-washed 

glades 
We  wandered  yesterday,  1  kept  at  bay 
The  Adam-impulse  that  scarce  brooked  de- 
lay; 
Nor  made  complaint  when,  like  an  hundred 

blades 
Of  steel,  desire  stabbed  my  soul ! 

Day  fades 
Again  to  dark.     Now  memory,  I  pray! 
Hark  back  the  spell  that  calmed  my  broken 

sighs:  — 
The  shadow-softened  glory  of  her  face 
Purer  than  Artemis'.  She  breathed  round  me 
Aromas  that  wrapped  sense  in  ecstasy 
So  high,  it  was  most  holy  —  from  the  grace 
Of  her  pure  body  —  her  soul's  paradise. 

Ralph  W.  Westcott. 

88 


FORGIVEN 

TwAS  on  a  brisk  October  day, 

The  skies  and  water,  both,  were  gray; 

Babette  abruptly  turned  away; 

Our  guns  beside  us  rested  — 

The  rabbits,  peeping  'tween  the  trees, 

Had  ne'er  seen  huntsmen  such  as  these. 

While,  heavily,  against  the  breeze. 

The  geese  flew  unmolested. 

The  saucy  quail  had  made  a  boast 
They  never  should  be  served  on  toast. 
(Alas,  the  dish  we  loved  the  most !) 
And  now  the  time  beguiling. 
She  waited  for  my  heart  to  break  — 
I  smoked  in  silence  —  neither  spake, 
Until,  reflected  in  the  lake, 
I  saw  Babette  —  all  smiling. 


89 


VOLTAIRE  TO  A  YOUNG  MAN 

You  say,  my  friend,  you  do  not  understand 
How  God   (your  God)  can   let  you  suffer 

pain. 
Why  He  permits  the  wrong  to  conquer  right, 
Or  rears  a  hope,  to  let  it  die  again. 
Well,  last  night,  in  haste,  I  crushed  a  rose 
That  lay  o'erbowed  upon  its  slender  tree. 
While  rushing  heedless  to  the  evening  tryst. 
'Twas  not  my  fault.     Perhaps  He  does  not 

see. 

You  say,  my  friend,  you  do  not  understand 
How  God  (your  God)  can  strike  your  guilt- 
less breast, 
How  He  can  bear  to  wither  all  your  hopes, 
Why  He  destroys  your  good  and  leaves  the 

rest. 
Well,  'twas  but  an  afternoon  ago, 
I  wandered  through  a  meadow,  musing,  sad. 
A  butterfly  disturbed  my  thought.     In  rage 
1  struck.    It  fell.    Perhaps  your  good  is  bad. 

90 


VOLTATRE    TO   A    YOUNG   MAN 

You  say,  my  friend,  you  do  not  understand 
How  God  (your  God),  who  knows  the  worst 

in  all. 
Can  let  this  tragedy  of  things  play  on. 
And  not,  in  mercy,  let  the  curtain  fall. 
Well,  in  yonder  cage,  there  pines  a  bird,     ^ 
And  better  far  for  him,  if  all  were  naught. 
And  yet  his  color  charms  my  eye,  his  voice 
Delights  my  ear.     Perhaps  you    too,  were 

caught. 

Bradley  A.  Welch. 


91 


EPIGRAMS 

PROPOSED    INSCRIPTION    FOR    THE    NEW 
LIBRARY 

Something    for    all,     Invention's    myriad 

kinds; 
The  silent  banquet  hall  of  moths  and  minds. 

on  a  medieval  tome 

Long  buried,  like  some  Inca's  horde,  behold! 
Amid  this  dust-heap  gleam  bright  bars  of 
gold. 

the  poet's  paradox 

In  tears  I  sang  my  sweet  content. 
With  joy  1  wrote  my  wild  lament. 

R.  T.  Kerlin* 


92 


FISHING  SONG 

Pierre  Lefarge  de  Doulazec, 

A  fisherman  bold  was  he, 
And  he  set  his  Hnes  and  he  set  his  nets 

In  the  restless,  roaring  sea. 
He  would  not  marry  a  fisher  lass, 

And  he  would  not  kiss  a-one: 
For  the  sea,  he  said,  would  be  his  bride, 

When  his  fishing  days  were  done. 

But  the  waves  roll  high  and  the  waves  roll 
low, 

And  wave  runs  fast  on  wave; 
And  underneath  is  the  undertow, 

And  underneath,  —  the  grave! 

So  there  came  a  time  when  the  sky  was  hid 

By  the  flying  clouds  and  rain, 
When  he  set  out  with  his  fearless  crew. 

And  never  came  back  again. 
For  he  was  true  to  the  oath  he  took, 

A  brave,  bold  lad  was  he; 

93 


FISHING  SONG 

And  he  went  down  in  a  winter's  storm, 
To  the  arms  of  his  love,  the  sea! 

Oh,  the  waves  rolled  high  and  the  waves 
rolled  low. 

And  wave  rolled  fast  on  wave; 
And  underneath  was  the  undertow, 

And  underneath,  —  the  grave! 

H.  A.  Webster. 


94 


MONA  LISA 

Thy  face  is  the  question  of  ages; 
Thy  form  is  the  mirror  of  time; 
Round  thy  temples  the  wisdom  of  sages; 
In  thy  smile  the  foreknowledge  of  crime: 
'Tis  a  smile  half  sneer  and  half  sadness, 
The  lips  now  curl,  now  repine  — 
Ah,  gentle  precursor  of  madness, 
Our  Lady  Divine. 

Thou  knowest  the  past  and  the  morrow, 

And  yet  in  thy  far-gazing  eyes 

I  see  not  a  hint  of  man's  sorrow, 

But  the  world-old  contempt  of  the  wise. 

Time's  symbol  unchanging  thou  seemest; 

Yet  the  sin-ridden  past  is  thine. 

Which  moulds  thy  form  as  thou  dreamest. 

Our  Lady  Divine, 

Age  has  etched  out  thine  eyelids  aweary 
And  thy  fleeting  intangible  smile; 
The  eyes  that  are  somber  and  dreary, 

95 


MONA    LISA 

Thou  Artemis,  Circe  of  guile. 

Are  we  ever  constrained  to  surrender, 

Forever  to  bow  at  thy  shrine. 

Most  subtle,  most  cruel,  most  tender, 

Our  Lady  Divine? 

Robert  Moses. 


96 


THE  METEOR 

A  SUDDEN  sword  of  brilliant  light 
Unearthly,  flashed  across  the  night 
And  cleft  it  with  a  blinding  seam. 
Flung  down  upon  a  dreaming  world 
Fantastic  shades  that  leaped  and  whirled. 
To  melt  away  beneath  its  gleam. 

"Behold!   A  god  descends  to  earth! 
A  gloom-god  of  portentous  birth! 
A  god  of  pestilence  and  storm ! 
Kneel  to  the  god !"     With  cries  of  fear 
Men  viewed  the  monster  crouching  near, 
And  shunned  its  dark  metallic  form. 

—  Worn  smooth  by  time  and  sleet  and  rain, 

Imbedded  in  a  barren  plain, 

The  form  still  rests,  forlorn,  alone; 

The  men  long  dead,  their  god  unknown. 

Horace  W.  Stokes. 


97 


ATTILA 

The  croaking  ravens  flap  o'er  fallow  fields, 
The  gaunt  wolf  lairs  in  ruined  city  walls, 
While  man,  the  Mighty  Master,  skulking 
crawls 
On  hands  and  knees  so  that  no  stir  reveals 
His  presence;  sunk  to  shameful  depths  he 
yields 
His  meal,  a  half-gnawed  bone,  to  beasts. 

The  halls 
Where  nobles  feasted  now  are  used  as  stalls 
And  ladies'  bowers  are  piled  with  leathern 
shields. 

Fierce  Messengers  of  Hell  the  barbarous  horde 
Swept   through   the   land:   beneath   their 
hoofs  the  sod 
Was  shriveled;  overhead  a  flaming  sword 

Blazed  in  the  sky ;  behind  Destruction  trod, 
Yet  men,  submissive,  bowed  before  the  Lord 
And  whispered,  "Peace,  it  is  the  Scourge 
of  God." 

Henry  S.  Lovejoy. 

98 


A   BALLADE  OF  NOVEMBER 

"This  is  the  time  when   the  dead  leaves 

fall," 
The  pessimist  cries  in  self-torturing  glee. 
"And  the  wild  wind  rattles  the  tree-tops 
tall, 

And  cold  and  the  raucous  airs  are  free. 

All  earth  and  mankind  are  in  misery. 
The  outcast  weeps  and  the  branches  toss — " 

But  1  lick  my  lips  and  go  smilingly, 
For  this  is  the  season  of  cranberry  sauce! 

The  sea-storms  to  the  land-storms  call, 

And  the  land  shrieks  out  to  the  boiling 
sea; 
The  black  skies  gather  and  threaten  all, 

And  the  sun-warmth  goes  and  the  sun- 
beams flee. 

The  rain-bullets  patter  incessantly, 
Prophetic  and  boding  of  pain  and  loss  — 

But  little  these  bodings  can  trouble  me. 
For  this  is  the  season  of  cranberry  sauce! 

99 


BALLADE  OF  NOVEMBER 

Let  the  wind  stir  the  coats  in  the  chilly  hall, 

The  dining-room  fire  burns  merrily; 
The  table  is  crowded  from  wall  to  wall, 

And  it  creaks  with  the  dainties  —  so  what 
care  we? 

The  corpulent  turkey  smells  savory. 
The   gravy   steams.     And    the   fruits'   dull 
gloss, 

The  coffee's  scent,  make  it  plain  to  see 
That  this  is  the  season  of  cranberry  sauce! 

Groaners  and  pessimists,  come  to  be 
Cheery,  whatever  your  plaint  or  cause, 

For  this  is  the  season  of  jollity. 

For  this  is  the  season  of  cranberry  sauce! 

J.  H.  Wallis. 


100 


THE   LINE  MEN 

The  Full  he  may  punt  for  fifty-odd, 

The  Half  he  may  buck  for  five, 
The  Quarter's  the  brain  behind  every  gain 

And  he  keeps  the  team  alive. 
But  when  the  tiers  are  a-rock  with  cheers. 

And  the  air's  like  a  nip  o'  wine. 
Here's  a  toast  to  the  souls  who  open  the 
holes, 

Down  in  the  muck  of  the  line. 

Tense  is  the  grimy  crouching  foe. 

Tense  is  the  straining  crowd, 
Trampled  and  torn  is  the  turf  below, 

When  the  signal's  bark  cracks  loud. 
Here's  an  eye  for  an  eye,  and  it's  do  or  die! 

Your  bone  and  his  bone  must  meet 
In  the  crash  on  crash  as  the  giants  dash 

To  the  goal  of  the  foe's  defeat. 

The  yards  are  twenty  before  the  goal, 
Each  breath  is  a  sobbing  sigh, 

lOI 


THE   LINE   MEN 

And  it's  up  to  the  Line  Men  to  pay  the  toll 

That  lets  the  Half-back  by. 
Your  teeth  are  set,  but  you're  not  gone  yet, 

Though  your  moleskin's  a  weight  of  lead, 
For  the  yards  must  pass  on  the  trampled 
grass 

And  the  ball  go  ever  ahead. 

The  yards  are  five  with  the  goal  behind; 

So  near  —  but  the  line  holds  fast. 
No  place   for  a   shirk  for  it's   two  men's 
work  — 

"Hold  hard!"  —  for  the  pace  can't  last. 
Hand,  tooth,  and  nail  and  it  must  avail, 
•     As  the  crashing  pile  sways  o'er. 
And  it's  far  from  the  top  that  the  Line  Men 
stop 

Ere  it's  "Up!"  and  "Hold!"  once  more. 

The  Full  has  his  hands  outstretched  afar, 
The  Ends  they  are  widely  spread; 

Your  men  must  be  quick  to  block  the  kick. 
And  you  must  play  with  your  head. 

And  with  the  roar  that  tells  of  the  score 
Your  heart  and  soul  are  aflame. 

102 


THE   LINE   MEN 

Though  the  wild  stands  call  for  the  man  with 
the  ball, 
You  played  your  part  in  the  game. 

The  Full  may  punt  for  fifty-odd, 

The  Half  he  may  buck  for  five, 
The  Quarter's  the  brain  behind  every  gain 

And  he  keeps  the  team  alive. 
But  when  the  tiers  are  a-rock  with  cheers. 

And  the  air's  like  a  nip  o'  wine, 
Here's  a  toast  to  the  souls  who  open  the 
holes, 

Down  in  the  muck  of  the  line. 

W.  R.  Benet. 


103 


ON   BATTELL'S  CHIMES 

The  steady  march  of  Academic  years. 
The  glow  of  hope,  the  transient  sighs  and 

fears. 
The  world-old  longings,  and  the  griefs  far 

flown  — 
Battell,  from  age  to  age  thy  chimes  intone. 

O.  H.  Cooper,  Jr. 


104 


CONTENT 

The  night  comes,  let  it  come; 
The  day  goes,  let  it  go  —     • 

With  a  friend,  and  a  stein, 

Or  a  bottle  of  wine, 
And  a  pipe,  in  the  firelight's  glow. 

Old  age  comes,  let  it  come; 
Blithe  youth  goes,  let  it  go  — 

With  a  friend,  and  a  stein. 

Or  a  bottle  of  wine, 
And  a  pipe,  in  the  firelight's  glow. 

J.  N.  Greely. 


105 


A   BALLAD  OF   BOYHOOD   BAY 

When  silken  ships  put  out  to  sea 

And  the  foam  of  the  wave  swings  by, 
As  the  sunset  isles  of  infancy 

Fade  low  on  the  fleece-bound  sky; 
With  sails  a-gleam  o'er  the  silver  stream, 

They  bend  on  the  westward  way 
To  the  golden  glow  of  long  ago, 

By  the  blue  of  the  Boyhood  Bay. 

There's  a  rainbow  strand  for  Wonderland 

And  a  cove  for  the  pirate  boat ; 
There's  an  emerald  sward  for  the  toy  com- 
mand 

To  storm  at  the  castle's  moat ;  — 
Oho!  for  the  joy  and  the  ways  of  the  boy, 

For  the  day  is  eternal  play 
In  the  golden  glow  of  long  ago, 

By  the  blue  of  the  Boyhood  Bay. 

Howard  A.  Plummer. 


1 06 


THE  WANDERING  JEW 

Sweeter  than  softest  music 

Of  earth  or  sea  or  sky 

Is  the  stifled  gasp  of  dying 

To  him  that  may  not  die; 

—  To  him  that,  wan  and  deathless, 

Must  watch,  dumb-souled  with  pain, 

The  nations  rise  and  crumble 

Till  Christ  shall  come  again. 

The  marble  courts  of  Princes 
My  casque-plumes,  sweeping  low, 
Brushed  in  their  deep  obeisance 
A  thousand  years  ago. 
Mine  was  the  robe  of  purple, 
That  speaks  a  king's  right  hand, 
And  when  the  war-gong  thundered 
Mine  was  the  chief  command. 
Where  axe  on  helm  was  crashing 
I  led,  and  prayed  to  die, 
Bowed  to  the  glittering  broadsword; 
The  broadsword  passed  me  by. 
107 


THE   WANDERING  JEW 

Within  a  sun-scorched  city, 
Lost  in  the  desert  sand. 
Crazed  with  the  rack  of  famine. 
Dank  from  the  Scourge's  hand, 
1  crawled  amid  the  stricken 
And,  palsied  arm  on  high. 
Prayed  for  the  Scourge  to  take  me, 
But,  lo,  it  passed  me  by. 

Far  in  a  clanging  workshop 
—  The  West's  full-furnaced  Hell  — 
Where  great  earth-shaking  hammers 
Obedient  rose  and  fell. 
Amid  the  soot  and  turmoil. 
Choked  by  the  hissing  air. 
Toiling  with  molten  rivers 
1  braved  the  white-hot  glare. 
Reckless  of  mighty  engines, 
And  chains  that  burst  and  fly, 
I  prayed  for  them  to  whelm  me. 
But,  lo,  they  passed  me  by. 

And  so,  throughout  the  aeons 
That  roll  unceasingly. 
Quelled  by  the  hand  of  heaven 
io8 


THE   WANDERING  JEW 

I  bow  to  its  decree. 
Toiling  where  toil  is  granted, 
Wrapped  in  a  leaden  calm, 
Broken  of  soul  and  weary, 
I  drift  from  pole  to  palm, 
Straining  with  heavy  eyelids 
To  catch  the  fire  unfurled 
That  tokens  in  its  gleaming 
The  sunset  of  the  World. 

E.  Lyttleton  Fox. 


109 


IN  VAGABOND  GOLDEN  AND 
VAGABOND  GRAY 

The  road  of  the  vagabond's  mottled  and 
winding: 
It  runs  through    the  hills  and  round  by 
the  sea, 
And  the  end  of  it  takes  a  long  day  for  the 
finding, 
And  the  heart  of  the  man  must  be  vaga- 
bond-free. 
Vagabond,  vagabond,  vagabond  he 
Who  follows  the  trail  for  the  whole  of  his 
day, 
Who  hearkens  unto  the  road's  decree, 
"Vagabond  golden  and  vagabond  gray." 

It  matters  no  whit  that  the  long  night  be 

binding  — 
Who  knows  but  a  star  may  break  o'er  the 

lea?  — 
And  the  sea  may  forever  go  on  with  its 

grinding; 

no 


VAGABOND   GOLDEN 

None  knows  what  the  waves  at  the  last 

are  to  be. 
This  only  is  certain:  the  wind  in  the  tree, 
The  feel  of  the  air  and  the  stinging  spray, 
The  sun,  and  the  rain,  and  the  wild  things 
aglee 
Are  vagabond  golden  and  vagabond  gray. 

The  call  of  the  road  is  sacredly  binding  — 

Tattered  or  girded,  of  every  degree, 
All  for  the  golden,  the  gray  never  minding, 

An  host  has  departed,  —  and  lo,  where 
the  bee 

Clambering,  filches  his  honey-fee. 
His  vagabond  kin  gleaned,  yesterday. 

Vagabond  beauties  such  as  folk  see 
In  vagabond  golden  and  vagabond  gray. 

In  the  face  of  the  mighty  they  turn  not  to  flee: 
They  are  vagabonds  careless  and  vaga- 
bonds gay. 
Ah  —  what  hale-hearty  vagabond  comrades 
are  ye 
In  vagabond  golden  and  vagabond  gray! 

S.  M.  Harrington. 

1 1 1 


THE   HERMIT'S   PRAYER 

A  HERMIT  knelt  before  his  woodland  shrine 
Of  blue,  cold-rugged  stone.     The  unhurried 

spring, 
His  rosary,  o'er-spattering  the  sedge 
Around  the  Virgin's  feet,  ran  through  the 

glen  — 
Cathedral     arched,     bright-paved    in     leaf 

mosaic. 
Rich-windowed  with  the  red  of  sunset  clouds 
Burning  between  the  frets  of  woven  boughs, 
Murmuring   with   echoes   from    a   choir  of 

brooks 
And  low-accompanying  breeze. 

But  hark!  there  rose 
Beyond  the  hill  a  voice,  gleefully 
Climbing  in  tunefulness,  and  tripping  on 
Into  a  happy,  happy  hunting  song! 
New  music  of  a   voice!     He   looked,   and 

shuddered, 
For  there  upon  the  crest,  against  the  sun, 
All  blood-red  in  her  lightly  hanging  gown 

112 


THE   HERMITS   PRAYER 

There  poised,  surprised,  a  vision  of  a  girl 
Just    ready  to  descend,  her    head    thrown 

back, 
Her  breast  with  full  breath  heaving,  and  her 

hands 
Swaying  two  saplings,  as  to  hold  her  there. 
Then,  graceful  as  a  falling  maple  leaf. 
She  skipped  along  the  ground,  and  with  her 

flew 
The  ghosts  and  all  the  images  of  love 
He  had   lashed  into  darkness.     Crouching 

back. 
He  trembled,  crossed  himself,  and  looked 

away, 
Flung  forth  his  scarce-clad  arms,  entreating 

her: 
"Go,  go,  thou  witch!    Oh  leave  me  now  in 

peace!" 
She  stood  before  him,  smiling  in  his  eyes. 
And  touched  his  shoulder  lightly  with  her 

hand. 
"I  am  no  witch,"  she  answered  laughingly, 
"But  just  a  maid  who  loves  the  autumn 

woods 
And  wanders  at  her  will.     To  prove  it  thee 

113 


THE  HERMIT'S  PRAYER 

I'll  sing  to  thee  a  Virgin's  lullaby 
My  mother  loved  to  croon  to  me  at  sunset. 
She  tilted  back  her  head  and  eyed  the  sky 
As  if  to  see  the  tune;  "Ah  yes,"  she  said, 
And  hummed,  and  started  sweetly  into  song: 

"My  heart,  as  red  as  the  sun, 
My  little  one. 

Yearns  to  Thee ! 
My  arms,  as  warm  as  its  beams 
Almost,  it  seems. 
Cling  to  Thee! 

"  But  Thou,  who  rulest  the  sun, 
My  little  one. 

Need  not  me! 
Angels  will  shelter  Thy  sleep 
And  they  will  keep 

Thee  from  me!" 

She  tightly  clasped  her  hands  against  her 

breast, 
Her  eyes  were  far,  like  stars  before  the  dark, 
Her.  tears  dripped  slow,  as  from  a  passing 

cloud, 

114 


THE  HERMITS  PRAYER 

Her  low  voice  caught,  as  if  the  Mother  sang. 
The  hermit  started  back,  adoring  her; 
He  fell  upon  his  knees,  with  hands  upraised; 
Trembling,  he  bowed  in  esctasy  of  prayer: 
"O  Virgin,  sacred,  most  immaculate. 
Pardon,  oh  pardon  my  presumptuous  sin!" 
Her  laughter  fled  from  her  and  filled  the  dell, 
Repeated  clear  from  every  tree  and  stone; 
She  took  his  face  between  her  light  young 

hands 
And  lifted  it  until  he  looked  at  her. 
All  smiling  gazed  she  in  his  blighted  eyes. 
And   laughing  said   to   him:   "No  —  no  — 

not  I  — 
Oh  do  not  worship  me  — "  She  paused,  her 

smile 
Faded,  as  sunset  into  gloom,  so  sweet 
And  tenderly,  as  she  bent  down,  and  pressed 
Her  Hps  against  his  forehead.     He  leapt  up, 
But  she  had  turned  and  fled,  and  as  he  heard 
Her  footsteps  rustling  dim  away,  his  arms 
Sank  empty  to  his  sides.     He  bowed  his 

head, 
Dropped  slowly  to  his  knees,  and  prayed: 

"O  Lord, 

115 


THE  HERMIT'S  PRAYER 

I  thank  Thee  for  Thine  ever-present  help 
And  Thy  dehverance  from   this  —  foul  — 

witch!" 
Darkness  and  loneliness  crept  up  to  him, 
He  heard  the  whispering  voices  of  the  breeze, 
And  the  low-singing  runlet,  and  the  spring  — 
Then    spattered   many   a   drop   without    a 

prayer, 

George  H.  Soule,  Jr. 


ii6 


THE  CALLING  OF  THE  RIVER 

Sweet  and  clear,  sweet  and  clear, 
The  cloister  bells  are  ringing; 
Soft  and  low,  soft  and  low, 
The  somber  monks  are  singing. 
Still  and  deep,  toward  the  sea 
The  sunlit  stream  is  flowing. 
What  if  I  too  should  doff  the  cowl 
And  toward  the  town  be  going? 

This  river  here  that  skirts  the  Abbey  wall 
And  stirs  those  reeds  beneath  the  poplar 

tree, 
—  They  say  it  sees  a  world  of  wondrous 

things 
Before  its  lazy  ripples  reach  the  sea. 

Beyond  the  yellow  worlds  of  waving  grain 
It  flows  where  castles  rise  and  turrets  frown. 
Burdened   with   fishers'   boats   and    barges 

gay. 

And  hearkens  to  the  murmur  of  the  town. 

117 


THE   CALLING   OF    THE   RIVER 

There,  on  a  mossy  bridge  that  spans  the 

stream, 
Bronze-bearded  pikemen  swagger  to  and  fro. 
And  merry  children  watch  the  painted  fish 
That  swim  within  the  mirror  flood  below. 

Sometimes  at  night  when  all  is  still  and  dark, 
With  never  star  to  gleam  from  overhead. 
Men  curse,  and  struggle  with  their  fellow- 
men. 
And  sink  in  silence  to  the  river-bed. 

But  on  the  evenings  when  the  moon  shines 

forth 
Gen'rous  with   mellow  light,  men  whisper 

low 
—  Even  the  river  cannot  hear  —  to  maids 
With  laughing  eyes,  and  bosoms  like  the 

snow. 

Sometimes   a   pied   street-fool   in    red   and 

green. 
Sometimes  the  king  with  glittering  retinue, 
And  many  other  sights  as  passing  strange 
The  river  sees,  they  say,  —  but  is  it  true? 

ii8 


THE   CALLING   OF    THE   RIVER 

What  lies  beyond  whither  the  fishes  swim, 
Whither  the  rushes  nod,  the  ripples  flow, 
Even    the    meadow   lark    has    seen,  —  and 

sings 
—  Ah,  to  be  eager  twenty,  and  not  know! 

Sweet  and  dear,  sweet  and  clear, 
The  cloister  bells  are  ringing; 
Soft  and  low,  soft  and  low. 
The  somber  monks  are  singing. 
Was  it  the  sight  at  eventide 
Of  man  and  maid  a-wooing. 
Or  was  the  joyous  robin's  song 
The  cause  of  my  undoing? 
Still  and  deep,  toward  the  sea 
The  sunlit  stream  is  flowing. 
What  if  I  too  should  doff  the  cowl 
And  toward  the  town  be  going? 

E.  Lyttleton  Fox. 


119 


FROM  THE  CITY 

On  every  side  the  endless,  hurrying  press, 
Streams,  whirlpools,  eddies  of  humanity: 
A  girl  who  laughs;  a  youth  whose  name 
might  be 

John  Keats,  or  Chatterton;  a  scarlet  dress, 

A  scarlet  soul;  a  beggar  bends  to  bless 
The  child  who  gives;  a  huckster  motions 

me; 
And  yet  for  longing  one  dear  face  to  see, 

I  think  I  ne'er  have  known  such  emptiness. 

On  every  side  the  endless  hurrying  press; 
Myriads  of  voices,  undertoned  by  feet 
Of  passing  throngs,  and  from  the  crowded 
street 
The  car's  crescendo,  and  the  heavier  stress 
Of  booming  drays.    At  every  street's  ingress 
The  diapason  grows  that  was  replete 
With  all  of  human  sounds  that  ear  might 
meet,  — 
And  yet  not  all ;  one  lacking — can  you  guess? 

Allan  Updegraff. 
1 20 


WHEN   PINE  TREES  WHISTLE 

Pine  trees  sighin'?    Wal,  I  guess  not. 
Never  heard  a  pine  tree  sigh. 
Heard  'em  whistlin'  like  blue  blazes, 
Laughin'  like  as  they  would  die. 
Just  one  time  they  ain't  a-whistlin',  — 
When  the  forest's  all  aflame 
With  the  colors  of  the  autumn, 
Then  it's  just  a  cryin'  shame 
Way  them  maples  in  new  dresses 
Swaggers  'round  afore  them  pines, 
(Just  like  schoolgirls'  exhibition,) 
All  togged  out  to  say  their  lines. 
Then  them  pines  ain't  saying  nothin', 
'Cept  to  murmur  now  and  then, 
Just  to  show  they're  still  alivin', 
"Wait  till  winter  comes  again." 
Sort  o'  scares  them  stylish  maples. 
Makes  'em  nervous  and  they  shake 
Till  they  just  go  all  to  pieces, 
Realizin'  their  mistake. 
And  the  pine  trees  whistle  louder 

121 


WHEN   PINE    TREES   WHISTLE 

When  them  dresses  turns  to  brown. 
Never  stop  their  talk  for  breathin' 
Till  the  leaves  come  whirlin'  down. 
My!  but  how  them  pines  do  whistle 
When  the  snow  whirls  'round  their  feet, 
Laughin'  at  them  poor  young  maples 
Standin'  bare  agin  the  sleet. 

Walter  Richardson. 


122 


TWILIGHT   IN  MARCH 

Guarding  the  dusky  hilltop  bare  and  bold, 

Black-etched   upon   a   sheen  of    lambent 

gold; 

Three  gaunt  pines  creak  and  shiver  in  the 

cold. 

Ralph  Westcott. 


123 


EXIT  HOMO 

The  play  is  over,  and  the  players  gone. 
Across  the  world-stage,  lonely  now,  there 
race 
The  dark-chilled  chaos  winds.     No  hope  of 
dawn, 
The  glacier-curtain  in  its  ancient  place. 

The  play  is  over;  with  Polonius  lie 

The  players,  couched  at  dinner.     Every 
scene 
Is  moldering —  brothel,  college,  temple  high, 
With  frescoes  decked,  of  arms,  or  laurel 
green. 

The  play  is  over.     Stands  the  empty  stage. 

Come  there  no  other  caperers  for  pence. 
To  rant  "This  is  the  immortal,  final  age"; 

To  bore  the  everlasting  audience? 

• 
What  though  thedrearynight  engulf  the  play! 

Faint  hints  the  promise  of  another  day. 

n.  Sinclair  Lewis. 
124 


PIPE-LIGHTING  TIME 

When  twilight  paints  the  fading  wall 
With  gloomy  shapes,  grotesque  and  tall, 
Or  conjures  forth  a  merry  band 
Of  tinseled  forms  from  F'airyland 
To  hold  me  in  their  silken  thrall. 
My  half-unconscious  fingers  fall 
Upon  the  old,  familiar  bowl, 
The  magic  moment  is  at  hand, 
Pipe-lighting  Time. 

The  dreamy  smoke's  slow-rising  pall 
Shuts  out  the  babbling  carnival; 
And  lo!  on  Spain's  dim  distant  strand 
There  leaps  the  Future's  castle  grand.    • 
'Tis  gilt  Ambition's  hour  to  call,  — 
Pipe-lighting  Time. 

E.  Lyttleton  Fox. 


125 


"AS   FROM  THE   PAST—" 

Moonlight  upon  the  mullioned  pane, 
Moonlight  flooding  the  vacant  stair, 

MoonHght  throbbing  a  soft  refrain, 
Ever  as  I  sit  brooding  there. 

Ever  —  and  all  its  strain  to  be 
"Dorothy  — Dorothy!" 

Back  from  my  chair  the  shadows  glide, 
And  in  the  corner  the  armor  glows  — 

Helm  of  the  knight  who  rode  by  thy  side, 
Greave  of  the  hero  who  wore  thy  rose, 

Relics  of  olden  chivalry  — 
"Dorothy  — Dorothy!" 

Over  my  head  the  'scutcheons  hang  — 
Marquis,  and  earl,  and  baronet. 

And,  as  1  ponder,  the  gisarms  clang, 
Truncheon  on  halberd  ringing  yet. 

Back  flit  the  days  of  cap-a-pie. 
"Dorothy— Dorothy!" 

126 


"AS   FROM    THE   PAST—" 

Wake!  for  the  backlog  smolders  dead; 
The  gray  dawn  steals  through  the  mul- 
lioned  pane. 
Burned  is  the  incense,  the  past  has  fled, 
Yet  through  my  soul  swells  the  soft  re- 
frain — 
Dear  golden  dream  days  of  thine  and  thee  — 
"Dorothy  — Dorothy!" 

Wm.  R.  Benet. 


127 


ON  SEEING  A   PICTURE  OF 
BEETHOVEN 

Sounds  the  deep  boom  of  ocean  and  the  roar 
Of  wind  surging  through  tree-tops.     Past  the 

moon 
Wings  the  wild  screaming  heron,  and  the 

loon 
Bewails  its  nest,   storm-strewn    along    the 

shore. 

Alone,  slow-striding,  bending  towards  the 

gale, 

Unmindful  of  the  lashing  sand  and  rain. 

The  Master  listens  to  the  savage  strain 

And  marks  the  meter  of  the  Storm  King's 

tale. 

R.  W.  Westcott. 


128 


A  WINTER  SEA 

A  BREATH, 

Then  a  growl, 

And  a  rising  howl. 

Till  the  cordage  shrieks  in  the  swelling  gale; 

And  the  ship  keels  deep  to  the  dreary  wail, 

While  the  timbers  echo  the  strident  tale, 

The  north  wind  is  crying, 

Is  sighing 

Of  death. 

A  breath 

Through  the  deep, 

With  a  rising  sweep. 

Till  the  wave  looms  high  with  a  hissing  dash; 

Till  it  staggers  down  with  a  snarling  crash; 

While  the  ship  lies  shuddering  'neath  the 

lash. 
The  wild  sea  is  booming. 
Is  dooming 
Its  death. 

Walter  Richardson. 

129 


ELIZABETH 

I  HEARD  thy  name  long  ere  we  met, 
Twas  sweet  as  though  the  words  were  set 
To  music,  and  the  soft  refrain 
Rang  in  my  soul  and  through  my  brain 
Like  phantom  thoughts  of  wild  regret. 

1  saw  thee;  with  the  sight  the  debt 
That  life  owed  me  was  fully  met, 
My  heart  leapt  up  with  Love's  sweet  pain, 
Elizabeth. 

We  danced  the  graceful  minuet, 
Thy  boon  to  me,  a  violet, 
I  treasure  still;  its  purple  stain 
Dyed  in  the  book  where  it  has  lain. 
Dyed  in  my  heart  that  can't  forget 
Elizabeth. 


130 


PASSIO   XL   MARTYRUM 
DRAMATIS   PERSON.^ 

CHRISTIANS  FIENDS 

CRISPUS  THE  RENEGADE  TWO  SOLDIERS 

CENTURION  WATCH 
ANGELS 

First  Soldier   . 

See  how  the  sparks  fly  snapping  down  the 

wind! 
The  brazier  glows   bright   red,   and   yet    I 

freeze. 

Second  Soldier 

Would  that  the  gods  who  blow  the  embers  so 
Breathed  not  on  me!     1  love  not  Scythia. 

First  Soldier 

Aye,  give  me  station  near  the  vine  country! 
This  herding  fools  at  midnight  on  the  ice 
Is  bitter  business.     Where  the  sun  is  warm, 

131 


PASSIO   XL  MARTYRUM 

Men  know  the  worth  of  life,  and  seek  not 

death 
In  stubborn,  aimless  conflict  with  the  laws. 

Second  Soldier 

Where  else  for  love  of  gods,  or  man,  or  maid. 
Would  forty  such  be  found  as  wait  for  death 
Stark  naked  in  this  air?     Men  say  the  lake 
Each  winter  freezes  to  the  very  springs; 
And  we  that  huddle  o'er  our  little  fires 
Beneath    the    sheltering    banks    are    cold 

enough. 
How  red  their  bodies  gleam  against  the  dark! 

First  Soldier 

Sum  Christtanus!   Forty  sturdy  men 
That  for  a  dead  and  buried  Jewish  prophet 
Affront  the  governor  and  welcome  death! 
Sum  Christi anus!  Hercle!  Till  the  gods 
Rain  more  than  water,  let  them  ask  me  not 
Such  service! 

Second  Soldier 

At  the  torment,  how  the  crone 
Bade  her  own  son  endure  without  complaint, 

132 


PASSIO   XL   MARTYRUM 

Lest  he,  forsooth,  lose  place  among  their 

heroes ! 
They  all  are  mad.  —  But  soft,  here  comes 

the  round. 

First  Centurion 

Let  none  escape.     If  rescue  be  attempted, 
Alarm  the  others.     Bring  me  any  one 
That  offers  to  recant.     Be  vigilant. 

Second  Soldier 

We  are  not  like  to  sleep  here  on  the  ice. 
They  say  that    in    the    tribune's  tent  are 

baths 
Of  heated  water,  fleeces,  spice  and  wine, 
To  remedy  the  deadly  chill.     Their  songs 
Are  like  their  lives,  a  fretful  dreary  whine. 

Christians 

We  thank  thee,  Lord,  that  we  may  lay  aside 

The  clogging  garb  of  sin, 
Put  off  the  former  man,  instinct  with  pride, 
And  share  the  anguish  of  the  Crucified, 

At  last  to  enter  in. 

133 


PASSIO  XL  MARTVRUM 

Winter  is  bitter,  Paradise  is  sweet; 

We  change  one  night  of  pain 
For  joys  no  earthly  king  can  give;  the  feet 
That  burn  with  cold  shall  press  the  heavenly 
street; 

These  trembling  hands  shall  reign. 

O  comrades,  falter  not,  but  put  to  rout 

The  ancient  ghostly  foe; 
Hell's  hungry  legions  press  us  close  about, 
And   snatch   and   thrust,   and   strive   with 
frantic  shout 

To  drag  us  down  below. 

Fiends 

There  is  time!    There  is  time! 
Come  quickly,  the  baths! 
Let  the  warm  blood  course 
With  new  life  through  its  paths! 
New  life!    Warm  life! 
Why  should  man  seek  for  death? 
Is  it  pleasing  to  God? 
Know  ye  not  how  Me  saith 
If  they  persecute  here 
Ye  shall  flee  away  there, 

134 


PASSIO   XL  MARTY  RUM 

Lest  the  guilt  of  your  blood 
Should  fall  to  their  share? 

Christians 

Lord  Jesus,  to  the  ordeal  we  are  come, 
Forty  —  and    forty    still    may    we    be 
crowned 
As  victors  in  Thy  kingdom.     From  that  sum 
May  none  be  wanting!     Angels,  guard  us 
round ! 

Fiends 

Doth  He  hear?     Do  ye  think 
That  when  Life  gives  her  best 
And  ye  will  not,  that  pain. 
Self-imposed,  brings  a  rest 
In  the  grave?     Fools!    Fools! 
Take  Life,  when  she  offers 
Her  bountiful  breast. 

Take  love  and  wine, 

And  when  the  shine 
Of  passion  in  a  woman's  eyes 

Makes  pulse  leap  fast, 

Forget  the  past 
And  all  this  folly  of  sacrifice! 

J35 


PASSIO   XL  MARTY  RUM 

Crispus 
My  spirit  weakens  with  this  cruel  pain. 

Christians 

Forty  are  we,  O  Jesu,  and  dread  is  that 

number! 
Forty  the  days  that  Moses  abode  on  the 

mountain, 
Bringing  to  Israel's  sons  the  tables  of  stone; 
Forty  the  days  of  the  fast  of  Thy  servant 

Elijah, 
Him  that  would  look  with  the  eyes  of  the 

flesh  upon  God-head; 
Forty  the  days  in  the  wilderness  when  Thou 

wast  tempted, 
By  that  temptation  we  pray  Thee  to  succor 

Thy  servants; 
May  we  be  crowned  still  forty  in  Heaven 

before  Thee ! 

Crispus 

1  cannot  bear  it,  save  nu-!     1  recant! 
Quick,  warm  me,  give  me  wine,  before   1 
freeze  — 

136 


PASSIO   XL  MARTY  RUM 

I    hail    thee,    Caesar,    God!     This    grateful 

heat  — 
Take  me  away,  my  limbs  have  mortified, 
I  perish! 

Fiends 

One  soul,  aha! 
We've  trapped  in  sin, 
And  dragged  to  share 
The  dungeons  where 
With  horrid  din 
The  souls,  aha! 
Lament  their  lost  estate. 
One  soul,  aha! 
One  child  of  grace 
We've  reft  from  Him! 
The  cherubim 
With  tears  efface 
One  soul,  aha! 
From  the  book  at  Heaven's  gate. 

Centurion 

Poor  Crispus !    Couldst  thou  not  have  stayed 

with  them, 
Thy  fellows?    They  at  least  rejoice  to  die, 

137 


PASS  10   XL   MARTY  RUM 

And   thou   hast   perished   miserably.     This 

Christ 
Must  touch  men's  hearts;  the  sword,  the 

Hons,  fire, 
And  cold  like  this,  cannot  repress  their  zeal — 
What  light,  what  voice  is  that  above  the 

lake? 

Angels 

Glory  be  to  God  on  high !    Amen ! 

And  praises  to  the  Lamb  his  Son!     Amen! 

The  crown  of  life,  the  high  reward  of  Him 
That  sitteth  on  the  throne,  I  offer  thee; 
The  palm  of  victory  over  sin  and  self, 
The  recompense  of  toil,  1  bring  to  thee. 
Hail  to  thee.  Martyr,  witness  for  the  truth, 
Thy  loving  Master  calls  thee  to  His  side. 

Not  unto  us,  O  Lord,  not  unto  us. 

To  Thy  name  be  the  praise!  Amen !  Amen ! 

Centurion 

What  is  this  company?     Mine  eyes  grow  dim 
With  the  glory;  and  that  music  stirs  my  soul. 

.38 


PASSIO   XL   MARTY  RUM 

There  stands  one,  silent,  with  bowed  head; 

beUke 
He  brought  the  regal  crown  and  palm  for 

Crispus. 
In  battle,  when  a  standard-bearer  falls. 
The  next  brave  man  steps  forward  in   his 

room, 
And  leaves  no  gap  along  the  line;  so  I 
Am  minded  to  lay  claim  to  Crispus'  place  .  .  . 
Sum  Christianus!  Here,  my  cloak  and  tunic. 
My  sandals.     Ah!  —  I  pray  you  take  me  in, 
Ye  Christians,  for  I  feel  the  love  of  Christ. 
I  know  the  Truth!     O  Christianus  sum! 

Angels  and  Christians 

Glory  to  God!     In  ways  unsearchable 
The  number  hath   He  kept,   and  him  we 

mourned, 
Replaced,   as   Matthew  followed  Jude   the 

cursed. 
Thou  art  baptized  by  faith,  and  not  in  water 
But  in  thy  life-blood !  Christian  soul,  all  hail ! 

Not  unto  us,  O  Lord,  not  unto  us, 

To  Thy  name  be  the  praise!    Amen!   Amen! 

139 


passio  xl  martyrum 

Certain  Christians 

How  long,  O  Lord,  how  long?     I  yearn  to  be 
With  Thee,  sweet  Jesu,  in  Thy  Paradise. 

Other  Christians 

The  East  grows  bright ;  we  enter  on  a  day 
That  shall  not  end.     Into  Thy  hands,  O 
Lord! 

Last  Christian 

I   soon  shall  join  with   these  my  brothers, 

passed 
Before  me.     Ah,  dear  Christ,  I  follow  Thee! 

First  Soldier 

The  sun  is  coming;  our  centurion 
Will  ne'er  again  give  orders. 

Second  Soldier 

He  was  mad. 
The  slaves  are  dragging  trees  across  the  ice 
To  burn  the  bodies  where  they  lie.     At  last 
The  trumpet!  and  this  cursed  watch  is  over. 

A.  E.  Baker. 
140 


A   BALLADE  OF  THE   PROM 

EuLL  of  graciousness,  full  of  grace, 
Bright  and  merry  from  top  to  toe, 
Fairy  figure  and  f airiest  face. 
Deep,  soft  eyes  like  a  startled  doe. 
Dusky  tresses  that  wave  and  blow, 
Chaining  our  hearts  in  their  silken  net  — 
Thus  is  thy  likeness  drawn,  I  trow, 
Modest  maid  of  the  violet! 

Grave  Old  Yale  is  an  altered  place; 
Gray  walls  answer  thy  laughter  low  — 
Eli's  sons  are  a  merrier  race; 
Under  thy  glances  they  gladsome  grow. 
Study  and  care  to  the  winds  they  throw, 
Sigh  for  the  smile  of  a  coy  coquette  — 
Vogue  la  galere  is  comme  il  jaut, 
Modest  maid  of  the  violet ! 


Locked  at  length  in  a  light  embrace, 
ng   to   1 
flow  — 


Swung   to   the   swirl   of   the   sound-waves' 


141 


A    BALLADE   OF    THE   PROM 

Lights  that  mingle  and  interlace  — 
Rose-leaf  blushes  that  come  and  go, 
Eyes  that  whisper  to  eyes  that  know  — 
We  shall  remember  —  will  you  forget? 
What  new  dreams  will  the  morrow  show, 
Modest  maid  of  the  violet? 

l'envoi 

After  the  parting,  amid  our  woe 
One  consolation  remaineth  yet  — 
Thou  wilt  return  in  a  year  or  so, 
Modest  maid  of  the  violet! 


142 


DUTCH  LULLABY 

The  weather-brown  windmill  swings  to  rest; 
Its  whimsical  drone  is  o'er. 
The  peat-smoke  mantles  a  curling  crest 
On  the  quay  by  the  dyke-bound  shore. 
While  the  Zuyder  Zee  sings  low  to  thee, 
Murmuring  "  Kindje,  sleep." 

The  fancy-fairies  have  sailed  away, 
'Cross  the  twinkling  moon-winked  snow, 
In  the  steeple-hats  of  mynheer's  array 
And  his  sturdiest  wooden  sabots.  — 
Oh!  for  the  streams  of  the  land  of  dreams, 
Whispering  "  Kindje,  sleep." 

So,  quick,  my  sweet,  ere  the  goblin-elf 

Peer  out  on  thy  blue-bright  eyes, 

For  swift  he  swoops  from  the  pottery-shelf 

And  dread  are  the  dreams  he  plies. 

But  never  a  fear,  for  the  moon  rides  clear, 

Signaling,  "  Kindje,  sleep." 

Howard  A.  Plummer. 

•43 


A  JAPANESE  SERENADE 

Dim  bluish  mountains  slowly  flush 

In  the  lingering  glow  of  a  rich  harvest  sun; 
Over  the  rice  fields  steals  a  hush, 
And  sleepy  stars  peep  one  by  one. 
Yuki,  come;  Yuki,  come. 
Ere  the  sunset's  last  gold  glimmer 
Fades  before  the  pale  moon's  shimmer, 
Yuki,  come. 

Pale  cherry  blossoms  tint  the  dale, 
Running  rampant  through  meadows  and 
over  the  hills; 
Low  on  a  branch  a  nightingale 
Is  floating  its  silvery  trills. 
Yuki,  come;  Yuki,  come, 
'Mid  a  thousand  pink-white  petals, 
Falling,  while  the  twilight  settles, 
Yuki,  come. 

Sorcerous  moonlight  traces  faint 
The  shadowy  gnarling  of  all  the  trees  — 

•44 


JAPANESE  SERENADE 

Fairy  tracings,  queer  and  quaint, 
That  waver  in  the  shifting  breeze, 
Yuki,  come;  Yuki,  come, 
Come,  and  all  the  night  we'll  wander 
Where  the  wind  is  sighing  yonder, 
Yuki,  come. 

W.  RuMSEY  Kinney. 


'45 


GARDEN  SONG 

A  GRAY  cloud  covers  the  coming  morn 
With  the  hush  of  a  haunting  dread. 
The  cold  wind  bites  hke  the  blast  of  scorn 

And  the  dawn  lies  dead  —  . 
And  the  joy  of  the  dawn  lies  dead  — 
But  the  lord  of  day  hath  rent  his  way 
And  flooded  the  fields  with  a  golden  glow, 
And  the  wraith-white  mists  are  captive 
borne, 
And  the  tall  bright  lily  laughs  "No,  no  — 
Life  yet  is  life  while  the  breezes  blow." 

The  great  sun  throbs  in  a  purple  sky 

To  the  tramp  of  the  marching  hours, 
And  the  bright  bees  labor  and  strive  and 
die 
O'er  the  hot,  faint  flowers; 
O'er  the  hot  and  thirsty  flowers; 
But  the  calm  brown  pool  is  dark  and  cool 
Where  the  brooklet  ripples  its  laughter  low, 
And  under  the  moss  where  the  shadows  lie 
146 


GARDEN   SONG 

Shyly  the  violet  breathes:  "Ah,  no  — 
Love  yet  is  love  while  the  breezes  blow." 

The  dim  hills  blush  in  the  rosy  gleam 
At  the  gates  of  the  wondrous  west, 
And  the  night  comes  down  like  a  sick 
girl's  dream 
Of  long  sweet  rest  — 
Of  love  and  joyous  rest ; 
But  a  chill  wind  flies  from  the  fading  skies 

With  a  shiver  of  fear  and  a  wail  of  woe. 
And  the  hemlock  branches  writhe  and  stream 
And  the  blood-red  poppy  sighs:  "Not  so, 
Still  death  is  death  while  the  breezes  blow." 

W.  B.  Hooker. 


'47 


MEED  OF  SORROW 

Upon  the  nearer  bank  of  that  dark  shore, 
Where,  still  and  full,  Lethean  waters  pour 
Like  greatening  darkness  and  a  deepening 

sleep 
That  makes  a  sobbing  child  forget  to  weep, 
And  lulls  its  beating  eyelids,  and  compels 
Erasure  of  the  sorrow,  and  foretells 
A  sweet  awakening  by  a  morning  breeze 
That   scatters    flickering   sunshine   through 

the  trees, 
I  saw  a  woman  wander,  all  alone. 
Her  long,  straight  robe  with  dullest  white- 
ness shone 
Like  to  the  blank,  sad  blindness  of  a  wall 
Between  us  and  our  freedom;  the  light  fall 
Of  her  brown  hair,  baffled  in  loveliness, 
Yearned  for  an  evermore  denied  caress; 
And  her  smooth,  twilight-pale,  grief-sickened 

brow 
Shamed  with  its  blessed  breadth  the  fire  that 
now 

148 


MEED   OF  SORROW 

And  now  anew  glowed  dully  in  her  eyes; 
Consuming  all  the  hopes  of  glad  surprise 
Or  unsought  joy.   She  would  not  now  impart 
In  one  clear  glance  for  her  deep-moving 

heart 
Any  half  satisfaction  in  a  love 
That  gives  itself  to  what  it  cannot  move, 
But  rather,  shaken  and  bruised  by  blow  on 

blow, 
Too  frightened    to  be  calm,   too  weak  to 

know. 
She  waited  for  an  ending  of  her  soul  — 
Never  to  come.     Toward  her  Lethean  goal 
Over   that    shadowy,    old    rough-heathered 

waste 
She  stumbled  with  slow  steps  too  tired  to 

haste. 
Her  pitiful  white  fingers  at  her  breast 
Clutched  at  her  sorrows,  as  if  yet  her  quest 
For  something  fine  and  beautiful  and  still 
Moved  her  in  vain  to  grapple  and  to  kill 
The    longings    torturing    her.     She    hardly 

breathed, 
Else   had    her   tense-held   woe   to  weeping 

seethed, 

149 


MEED   OF  SORROW 

And  smitten  with  sudden  tears  iiad  found 

relief  — 
A  thing  that  could  not  be.     In  pure,  whole 

grief 
She  reached  that  silent  stream,  and,  bend- 
ing low, 
She  saw  its  blackness  and  desired  it  so 
That  sorely  trembling,  she  leaned  o'er  the 

brink 
And  lifted  one  sweet  handful.     Ere  the  drink 
Had  touched  her  patient  lips,  a  strange  regret 
Grew  in  her  eyes,  as  if  a  moment  yet 
She  held  some  lonely,  sweet  pain   to  her 

heart 
Close  as  a  child,  afraid  lest  it  depart. 
Then  trembled  joy  o'er  pain,  as  when  the 

moon 
Swells  wondrously  above  some  distant  dune, 
Creeps  spirit-like  across  uncertain  seas. 
And  blazes  splendor  on  the  fantasies 
Of  midnight  tenor.     Slowly  she  let  fall 
The  potion  black  that  would  have  hidden  all. 
And,  in  whole  knowledge  of  her  deep  distress, 
She  smiled  a  smile  of  utter  tenderness. 
George  H.  Soule,  Jr. 
150 


THE   EYE  OF  MY  LORD  THE   KING 

Keen  as  the  point  of  the  steel-shod  lance 

At  his  silver  saddle-bow, 
Black  as  the  hair  of  a  stripling  born 

Where  the  lotus  lilies  blow. 
Stern  as  the  roar  of  the  wind-swept  sea 

When  the  gulls  are  skimming  low; 
And  there's  never  a  peasant  did  not  pale, 
Nor  ever  a  lord  that  did  not  quail. 
Nor  a  henchman's  heart  that  did  not  fail 

'Neath  the  Eye  of  My  Lord  the  King. 

"Hoho!"  laughed  the  crow  from  the  ivied 

wall, 
"For  a  pair  of  eyes  to  conquer  all 
—  'Tis  a  wondrous  silly  thing," 

True  as  the  hearts  of  the  hundred  knights 

That  fly  his  pennons  free. 
Soft  as  the  perfume-laden  breeze 

That  wafts  o'er  a  Southern  Sea, 
Kind  as  the  soul  of  our  gracious  queen 

When  she  prays  on  bended  knee; 

151 


THE  EYE   OF   MY   LORD    THE   KING 

And  there's  never  a  maid  in  the  broad  realms 

nigh, 
Be  she  castle-born  or  shepherdess  shy, 
That  did  not  gaze  to  earth  and  sigh 
'Neath  the  Eye  of  My  Lord  the  King. 

"Hoho!"  laughed  the  crow  from  the  moat 

below, 
"  For  a  pair  of  eyes  to  witch  them  so 
—  'Tis  a  passing  foolish  thing." 

Cold  as  a  link  of  the  drawbridge  chain 

At  the  purple  tinge  of  day, 
Dull  as  the  mien  of  a  mountain  pool 

When  the  mist  hangs  thick  and  gray, 
Still  as  a  mouldering  donjon  keep 

Where  crawling  lizards  play, 
And  there's  never  a  lord  to  bend  him  low, 
Nor  even  a  maiden's  cheek  to  glow. 
For  the  flame  has  died  with  a  broadsword 
blow 

From  the  Eye  of  My  Lord  the  King. 

"Hoho!"  laughed  the  crow  as  he  perched 

near  by, 
"Not  all  birds  dine  on  a  kingly  eye. 

152 


THE   EYE  OF   MY    LORD    THE  KING 

—  'Tis  a  wondrous  lucky  thing! 
Here's  a  royal  feast  for  a  year  and  a  day. 
Now  where  is  a  feather  of  reason,  pray, 
In  the  terrible  things  the  people  say 
Of  the  Eye  of  My  Lord  the  King?" 

E.  Lyttleton  Fox. 


'53 


i.^n 


VA) 


t^- 


THE  BALLAD  OF  KING  GRADLON 

The  sea  still  sweeps  to  Brittany, 

But  once,  in  Gradlon's  reign, 
It  swept  the  land  jar  a  double  league 

As  it  never  has  again. 

The  wave  had  won  the  peasant's  door, 

It  groped  at  his  roof-tree, 
And  what  was  once  the  low  broad  land 

Was  now  the  broad  gray  sea. 

On  his  castle  walls  King  Gradlon  watched; 

"God  pardon  us,"  he  cried, 
"Some  witch  hath  paid  the  devil  well 

For  power  o'er  the  tide." 

Then  Gwenole,  the  priest,  spoke  up, 
"  Tis  ill  that  we  should  stay. 

With  the  sea  waist-high  upon  the  road, 
And  the  hills  a  league  away. 

"  For  I  shall  carry  the  great  gold  Cross, 
And  the  sacred  Host  take  you; 

Borne  high  above  this  tide,  they  will 
Its  soul-bought  power  subdue." 

•54 


BALLAD   OF   KING  GRADLON 

King  Gradlon  knelt  before  the  Host, 
But  his  daughter  whispered  low. 

The  Host  he  left,  but  he  took  the  maid 
Clasped  tight  on  his  saddle  bow. 

They  rode  out  on  the  drowned  highway, 
And  the  sky  hung  low  and  black. 

The  sea  on  their  plunging  horses'  flanks 
Shone  white  in  the  lightning's  track. 

Then  Gwenole,  the  priest,  spoke  up, 

"'Tis  ill  you  should  not  know, 
The  girl  that  clings  behind  you  there, 

'Tis  she  hath  done  this  woe. 
The  sacred  Host  was  yours  to  take: 

Thy  daughter  now  must  go. 

"O  cast  her  down  from  your  saddle-tree! 

Devils  to  devils  pray; 
She  has  called  on  the  sea,  let  it  take  her 
now  — 

It  is  God's  word:  Obey!" 

King  Gradlon  looked  upon  the  skies; 

They  swirled  down  wrathfully. 
"God  strike  me  if  1  do  a  wrong." 

And  "Ay,"  said  Gwenole. 

'55 


BALLAD   OF  KING  GRADLON 

The  old  King  groaned,  "My  girl,  my  girl  • 

God's  will  be  done,"  he  said, 
And  clenched  his  teeth  and  thrust  her  off: 

She  fell  as  one  falls  dead. 

The  lightning,  like  the  sword  of  God, 
Leapt  sudden  to  the  sea  .  .  . 

Thereafter  no  man  saw  the  King 
Nor  the  false  priest,  Gwenole. 

Lowell  C.  Frost. 


156 


THE  LAST  VAGABOND 

Oh,  we  swung  out  of  the  courtyard  gate, 

And  into  the  sunny  road. 
That  ran  so  crooked,  that  ran  so  straight, 

Our  goal,  and  ever  our  goad. 

The  road  lay  beautiful,  blinding  white, 
And  the  world  was  very  young, 

Or  young  it  seemed  to  our  fresh  young  sight 
And  a  careless  song  we  sung: 

"Oh,  He  is  wed  to  his  dulling  toil, 

And  He  to  his  fireside. 
And  He  to  the  sodden  sweat  of  the  soil; 
And  a  captive  He  in  chance's  coil; 

But  I  —  the  road's  my  bride." 

Yet  one  dropped  under  the  noonday  sun; 

And  we  left  him  lying  still. 
We  wanted  to  see  where  the  road  would  run, 

What  lay  behind  the  hill. 

'57 


THE  LAST   VAGABOND 

And  one  dropped  out  at  the  little  inn  — 
Oh,  the  wine  was  very  good  — 

But  we  laughed  at  him,  cooped  up  within, 
Atramp  through  the  good  God's  wood. 

And  one  dropped  out  when  the  rain  swirled 
down, 

And  the  wind  chilled  to  the  bone, 
And  turned  to  the  sheltering  nearest  town; 

While  we  swung  on  alone. 

Oh,  we  were  young  and  the  world  was  young 

And  all  the  world  our  friend. 
When  out  of  the  great  gray  gate  we  flung  — 

And  you  are  at  journey's  end. 

Your  path  stops  short,  half  up  the  hill, 

At  a  vinegrown  home;  but  I 
Shall  follow  the  beckoning  long  road  still. 

Old  man,  good  night,  good-by! 

"Oh,  He  is  wed  to  his  dulling  toil, 

And  He  to  his  own  fireside, 
And  He  to  the  sodden  sweat  of  the  soil; 
And  a  captive  He  in  chance's  coil; 
But  I  —  the  road's  my  bride." 

J.  N.  Greely. 
158 


VILLON   IN   PRISON 

A  WORD  with  thee,  my  friend  o'  the  rusty 

keys! 
Didst  think,  perchance,   I  slept  a  moment 

since. 
So  failed  to  note  the  fine,  painstaking  search 
Bestowed  on  my  apparel;  frayed,  'tis  true, 
By  over-frequent  bouts  with  wind  and  worse. 
Yet  whole  enough  to  hide  some  paltry  pence 
Whereof   'twere    well    to   rid  —  nay,    spare 

excuse! 
My  course  were  thine,  had  I  been  turnkey 

here 
And  thou  mad  Villon,  doomed  to  hang  at 

noon. 
So  making  late  amends  to  angry  God 
And   cheating  hell   fire   yet,    to  quote  the 

priest. 
But  hear  me  out!    The  coins  may  still  be 

thine, 
With    blessings    added,    all    for    one    poor 

sheet  — 

159 


VILLON    IN   PRISON 

Mark  me,  I  ask  but  one  —  whereon  to  write 
Of  pity  and  farewell;  throw  needful  light 
On  certain  episodes  for  one  who  else  — 
Dost  catch  my  drift?     Girls'  hearts  are  such 
frail  things. 

Thanks,  friend!    There,  keep  the  pence,  and 

leave  me  now 
To  make,  as  best  I  can,  my  peace  with  God 
And  her,  if  that  may  be. 

Wide,  smooth  and  white! 
So  smooth!  So  white!  So  fit  to  charm  the 

pen 
To  facile  rhyme!  —  And  leave  poor  Jehanne 

to  starve 
Her  heart  out  for  the  word  that  sets  all 

right? 
No,    never    that,    please    God!— But    ah, 

those  lines 
That  raced  like  wildfire  through  my  brain 

last  night! 
Bright    fugitives;    if    1    could   grasp    them 

now, 
What  golden  worth  might  they  not  yield, 

what  hope 

160 


VILLON    IN   PRISON 

Of  handing  Villon's  name  to  future  years 
Blest,  glorified,  redeemed  from  sudden  night 
By  one  triumphant  burst  of  lyric  dawn! 
How  did  the  first  line  run?  —  Poor  Jehanne, 
poor  Jehanne! 

Howard  Chandler  Robbins. 


i6i 


THE   LAST  BALLADE 

Master  Francois  Villon  Loquitur 

Snow  —  and  still  snow  —  and  is  night  com- 
ing, Sister, 
Or  just  my  eyesight  failing?     You  have  sent 
For  the   last   unction?     Set   the  casement 

wide 
That  I  may  hear  the  tinkling  of  the  bell 
When  the  good  father  comes  along  the  street 
And  all  the  people  reverence  the  Christ. 
Come  nearer,  Sister,  sit  you  by  my  side. 
I  am  afraid  of  I->ar.     You  do  not  know, 
Wrapped  in  your  cloistered  peace  and  sanc- 
tity, 
What  Fear  is — the  gray  awful  thing  that 

comes 
And  clutches  you  all  soundless  from  behind 
(When  you  are  hot  and  full  of  meat  or  lust), 
To  point  the  way  that  all  men  have  to  go. 
Death  is  not  dreadful  to  a  soul  like  yours. 
For  you  have  known  God's  pity  and  God's 
love. 

162 


THE   LAST  BALLADE 

So  have  not  I.     Ever  my  joy  hath  cranked 
And  twisted.     Whirling  in  drunken  dance 
At  best  I  only  caught  a  feverish  glimpse 
Of  that   high,  blinding  light   they  tell  me 

gleams 
From  the  half-open  gates  of  Paradise  — 
My  Katharine  —  but  she  never  understood. 
I  could  not  make  her  see — she  only  laughed 
Her  beautiful   bright    laugh  —  and    passed 

me  by. 
Oh,  Sister,  if  the  kind  good  Christ  will  take 
All  that  I  meant,  all  that  I  had  in  mind 
To  do  and  say.     But  that,  too,  is  my  curse, 
Ever  to  promise,  never  to  fulfill  — 
Christ,  Christ,  how  can  I  die?    What  should 

I  do 
In   your   fair   mother's   garden   where    the 

Saints 
Do  walk  in  order,  and  the  holy  maids 
Cecily,  Rosalys,  and  the  rest?     They'd  stare 
To  see  poor  light-pate  Villon  in  their  midst. 
Besides,  there's  no  stewed  tripe  in  Heav'n, 

1  fear, 
Nor  Beaune  wine.     There  I'd  have  naught 

to  say. 

163 


THE   LAST  BALLADE 

You  see  I  only  know  the  kind  of  life 
Where  sinning  men  and  women  sweat  and 

eat 
And  laugh  to  hear  the  idle  songs  I  make. 
All  that  I've  done  has  borne  its  taint  of  sin. 
Myself  alone  I  served  —  myself  betrayed. 
Have  mercy  then;  and  thou,  O  Holy  Queen, 
My  last  ballade  to  thee  I  here  indite. 
(Help  me  up.  Sister.)     1  will  kneel  to  thee. 
Do  thou  enthroned  hear  and  plead  for  one 
Poor  Frangois  Villon,  poet,  lover,  thief, 
Take  all  my  life  and  read  it  as  a  prayer 
Crying  thee  mercy.     Pity  a  poor  scribe 
Who  has  writ  ill,  nor  matched  his  meter 

well. 
But  here  the  song  ends.     Only  do  thou  smile 
In  kindness  on  me,  and  the  awful  things 
That  creep  and  cling  about  me  must  take 

flight. 
Leaving  my  soul  free,  then,  at  last  to  climb 
Unto  that  Heaven  I  saw  in  my  love's  eyes. 

******* 
Enne,  how  cold  it  is!     The  bones  will  creak 
On    Mont    Fau(^on    to-night.     Call    in    the 

priest 

164 


THE   LAST   BALLADE 

To  give  me  bread  and  wine  —  my  last  on 

earth. 
Katharine  —  not  here  —  pardon    my  folly, 

father; 
One  earthly  thought  —  now  comes  the  last 

envoi. 

Thomas  Beer. 


165 


THE   INCENSE   DANCE 

Through  the  dim  hangings,  slowly  cleft  in 

twain, 
The  dancer  glides,  white-swathed,  incarnate 

grace  — 
Nor  know  1  if  that  weirdly  pulsing  strain 
Inspire  the  trend  of  her  consummate  pace, 
Or  be  her  footfall's  airy-tuned  trace. 
Poised  o'er  her  head  she  bears  the  incense 

tray, 
A  rapt,  mysterious  smile  upon  her  face. 
Then  flowerwise  stoops  in  languorous  delay 
Upon  a  pedestal  the  spicy  grains  to  lay. 

Anon  the  stately  treading  dance  she  turns 

To  drop  in  brazen  jars  at  either  side 

Her  salvered  balm  with  lissome  hand.     The 

urns 
Sudden  exhale  a  musky,  vaporous  tide, 
That  softly  glows,  here  green,  there  violet 

dyed ; 
'Neath  the  white  veil  upon  her  ebon  hair 

1 66 


THE   INCENSE   DANCE 

Of  clustered  headdress.  Lore  above  com- 
pare 

The  incense  god  is  whispering  —  so  her  eyes 
declare. 

She  breathes  the  perfume,  while  the  zither's 

strings 
In  rippled  sweeps  of  fuller  joyance  swell, 
And  her  lithe  arms  in  mazy  willowings 
Are  wound,  and  many  a  supple-woofed  spell. 
Potent  all  thoughts  of  more  than  this  to 

quell. 
Is  echoed  sinuous  to  her  finger  tips. 
Surely  from  some  scent-heavy  lotus-bell 
She  comes   to  shroud   the  heart   in   sweet 

eclipse  — 
E'er  with  rapt  mysterious  smile  upon  her 

lips, 

She  brings  the  magic  of  an  Indian  night 
Where  smolder  peacock-breasts  of  phospor- 

green. 
Ruffled  by  jungle  zephyrs  ne'er  so  light. 
The  while  their  eyed  trains  in  myriad  sheen 
Sway  'gainst  the  lacy-fretted  marble  screen, 

167 


THE   INCENSE  DANCE 

That,  blanching  'neath  the  moon  in  splendor 

pale, 
Girdles  some  Ranee's  odorous  demesne, 
Glints  through  the  haze  a  wreathed  pearly 

pride, 

Where  echoes  oft  the  bowered  nightingale, 

In   rosy   Haidarabad  or   Kashmir's  storied 

vale. 

T.  Lawrason  Riggs. 


168 


THE   ROYAL  MAIL 

Quick!  ho,  ye  honest  gentle-folk! 

Fling  up  your  windows  wide! 
Let  fall  your  knives,  ye  busy  wives! 

Lads,  to  the  highway  side! 
Come,  tapster  of  the  Bull  and  Boar, 

Put  by  that  mug  of  ale! 
Let  high  and  low  enjoy  the  show. 

Here  comes  the  Royal  Mail ! 

With  clang  of  hoof,  and  ring  of  horn, 

And  blaze  of  kingly  blue. 
In  mighty  swerve  she  rounds  the  curve 

And  bursts  upon  the  view! 
The  postboys'  whips  are  whistling  high. 

Their  mounts  are  panting  free. 
From  red  to  roan  all  dashed  with  foam. 

And  racing  gloriously! 

A  merry  company  on  top, 

A  glimpse  of  more  within, 
A  brave  array  of  kerchiefs  gay 

That  flutter  'mid  the  din; 
169 


THE   ROYAL   MAIL 

A  hearty  cheer  that  echoes  long, 

A  dust-cloud  rising  fast, 
—  And  now  it's  o'er.     To  work  once  more. 

The  Royal  Mail  is  past. 

E.  Lyttleton  Fox. 


170 


A  SONNET  TO  JOHN    KEATS 

Erom  birds  that  pour  their  Hquid  notes  of 

song, 
At  early  morn,  and  late  at  eventide; 
From  curious  shells,  that  in  the  great  deep 

hide, 
And   flowers   that   maidens   cull   in    happy 

throng; 
Erom  deepest  solitude  of  whole  days  long, 
And  sculptured  stone,  of  olive  Greece  the 

pride; 
Erom  stars,  the  glistening  tears  of  evening's 

bride, 
And  waves,  that  whisper  in  a  mystic  tongue; 
Keats   wooed    his   strains    and   with    them 

passion  blent. 
And  as  the  chalice  of  a  flower  is  bent 
With  the  sweet  burthen  of  the  morning  dew, 
Yet  in  its  drooping  casts  to  earth  anew 
A  richer  fragrance  than  it  e'er  hath  lent 
Before,  so  seemed  the  life  of  Keats  when 

spent.  Irvine  Goddard. 

171 


MATIN   SONG 

Listen,  my  sweet,  the  great  god  Pan  is  call- 
ing. 
I  hear  his  shrill  notes  trembling  on  the 
breeze, 
Hark  to  the  piercing  echo, — waning,  falling! 
See  how  his  hair  gleams  yonder  'mid  the 
trees. 

Nor  pain  to-day,  nor  worry  for  the  morrow, 
Let  them  not  live  before  a  strain  so  sweet ! 

And  joys  we  lack,  love,  let  us  haste  to  borrow 

From  him  who  pipes  there  on  his  grassy 

seat. 

E.  L.  Fox. 


172 


SAINT   HUBERT 

Could  St.  Anselm's  logic 
Make  wine  the  less  ruddy? 
St.  George  was  too  fiery, 
His  dragon  too  bloody. 

Sing  ho!  for  St.  Hubert, 
The  patron  for  me. 
When  hunting  horns  wind 
Over  heather  and  lea. 

The  bell  of  his  chapel 
Most  merrily  jingles; 
A  mossy  old  chapel, 
In  the  dimmest  of  dingles. 

The  fat  priest,  and  merry, 
Holds  short  hunter's  mass. 
We  give  him  a  pasty 
Whenever  we  pass. 

173 


SAINT  HUBERT 

Your  crabbed  St.  Peter, 
For  all  of  his  fuss, 
Would  leave  us  in  limbo, 
St.  Hubert  for  us. 

Harry  S.  Lewis. 


•74 


DEATH   AND  THE  MONK 

Dead  to  a  world  that  never  saw  my  face, 
Dead  to  a  world  that  never  knew  my  heart, 
Dead  to  a  world  that  never  felt  my  love. 
Unloving,  loveless,  through  the  lonely  night, 
I  pace  the  cloisters  paved  with  graven  slabs 
That  mark  the  bones  and  dust  of  monks  long 

dead. 
Aye,  dust  and  ashes  in  my  mouth  to  eat 
My  life  is  in  this  tomb  of  living  men, 
This  charnel  house  where  corpses  move  and 

breathe, 
Life-shattered  wrecks  of  what  were  mighty 

men. 
Strong  men   or  learned,   knights  of  noble 

house, 
Black-cowled,  and  silent  as  the  flight  of  time. 
But  from  the  day  when  I,  the  hated  fruit 
Of  man's  desire  and  a  woman's  shame, 
Was  brought  without  a  name  into  this  world. 
With  all  my  patrimony  Wine  and  Love 
And  all  my  heritage  the  lust  to  live, 

"75 


DEATH  AND  THE  MONK 

I  have  been  buried  in  this  Hell  of  Hells; 
Cherished  half  loathly  for  the  love  of  God 
By  monks  as  passionless  as  the  low  stones 
That  pave  their  wind-swept  cloisters.    Joy 

of  Life, 
Childish  affection,  all,  they  battered  down, 
And  broke  my  boyish  spirit;  till  in  time. 
As  years  increased,  I  took  the  novice-vow. 
And  still  too  young  to  feel  the  fire,  the  cowl. 

1  lay  before  the  altar  steps  alone 
And  over  me  was  spread  the  cross-marked 

pall. 
And  with  a  cadenced  wail  the  brothers  sang: 
"When  Israel  from  out  of  Egypt  land 
And  Jacob's  house  from  the  strange  people 

came, 
God  turned  the  hard  rock  to  a  standing  pool; 
He  turned   the   flint   stone  to  a  springing 

well!" 
Then,  as  the  silence  fell  again,  I  rose  — 
My  body  grimed  with  cross  of  ashes  strewn. 
Grave-naked,  and  all  naked  there  I  knelt, 
All  unashamed  — the  dead  are  unashamed! 
The  Prior  clad  me  in  the  rough,  coarse  robe 
That  has  not  left  my  body  since  —  the  dead 

176 


DEATH  AND  THE  MONK 

Change  not  their  raiment  —  so  I  took  my 

vows 
Of  Poverty.     What  other  had  I  known, 
My  boyhood  closed  within  a  ck>ister-wall? 
Of  Chastity.     What  other  had  I  known? 
I  have  not  seen  a  woman's  face  except 
The  image  of  God's  Mother.     To  obey. 
Too  weak  was  I,  too  coarsely  fed  for  pride. 
My  vows  were  words:  words  empty  as  my 

heart, 
As  starved  of  meaning  as  was  I  of  soul. 

Upon  the  altar  lay  a  knotted  cord, 
A  rosary,  and  these  the  aged  prior 
Bound  on  my  boyish  frame.     "When  thou 

wast  young  — " 
A  mockery!     I  never  had  been  young!  — 
"When  thou  wast  young  thou  didst  begird 

thyself. 
And  wentest,  even  where  thou  wouldst:  but 

now 
Stretch  out  thine  arms:  thou  older  art,  and 

one 
Shall  lead  thee  where  thou  wouldst  not." 

Then  the  Mass 
Was  sung,  and  I  received  the  Blessed  Brq^d. 

'77 


DEATH   AND    THE  MONK 

And  while  1  knelt  the  organ  played  a  dirge. 
As  all  the  brothers  sang  my  requiem, 
Hailing  the  dead. 

Long  years  have  passed  away, 
And  many  since  have  lain  upon  that  cross 
And  many  have  been  covered  with  the  pall 
And  many  girded  with  the  unloosening  knot. 
David  they  called  me  then:  David  the 
Saint 
They  call  me  for  my  watchings  and  my 

prayers. 
For  in  the  course  of  days  my  nature  grew 
And  forced  itself  against  the  cord  and  cowl 
So  that  1  craved  for  larger  interests 
Than  Lauds  and  Prime,  or  Book  and  Rosary. 
At  first  1  prayed  the  Blessed  Saints,  and  her, 
The  Queen  of  Saints,  to  shield  me  from  my- 
self; 
My  prayers  fell  back  and  bore  me  to  the 

earth. 
I  tried  to  starve  my  mad  desire  down: 
But  still  my  pulses  beat  and  drove  me  mad. 
Three  years  agone,  our  abbot  died,  and 
me, 
Of  all  our  order,  chose  they  to  his  place. 

.78 


DEATH   AND    THE   MONK 

I  dared  not  to  refuse:     Obedience 

Too  long  had  cowed  me,  and   1    took   tlie 

place. 
And  now  I  loathe  myself  for  my  deceit. 
Yet  cannot  go,  for  all  of  my  desire: 
I  hate  the  brothers  for  their  reverence, 
For  their  blind  honor  to  my  saintliness. 
1,  shame  to  say,  despise  the  Blessed  Saints 
For  that  they  could  not  save  me  from  my- 
self. 
And  so  I  live  an  age  of  Hells  in  life  — 
A  life  more  awful  than  the  very  death. 
My  girdle  galls  my  flesh    and   calls   me 
-     "Monk." 
My  rosary  beats  my  knees  and  cries  aloud: 
"Thou  art  but  dead!"  and  thus  I  answer  it: 
"Would  God  that  Death  would  free  me  from 
this  death!" 

Arthur  E.  Baker. 


179 


FATHER   KILEEN 

'Tis  he  that's  the  most  controversial  rogue, 
With  a  strong  touch  of  wit,  and  a  stronger 

of  brogue. 
He'll  sit   down,   and   he'll   prove  that   the 

notions  in  vogue  — 
Frinzied   finance   and   such  —  were   known 

back  in  B.  C. 

He  can  swing  a  shillaly, 
And  drink  poteen,  r'ally; 
O'er  his  old  dudheen,  gaily 
(His  small  black  dudheen). 
A  prince  among  men  at  least. 
Father  of  fun  and  feast, 
Niver  a  fun'ral  priest. 
Father  Kileen! 

I    swear   by   me   hod    that    the    Father   is 

able 
To  prove  that  you're  on  nayther  or  both 

sides  the  table, 

1 80 


FATHER   KILEEN 

That  the  can  is  a  candle,  the  bar-room  a 

stable. 
That  to-day  is  to-morrow,  that  young  Mike 

is  me! 

A  fast  one  at  serving  mass, 
Smiles  on  the  plainest  lass. 
Kisses  the  brats  that  pass, 

Dirty  or  clean. 
Just  try  his  stories  here, 
And  see  him,  o'er  the  beer, 
Give  you  the  kindest  leer, 

Father  Kileen! 

Father  Kileen,  Father  Kileen, 
Niver  a  word  that  is  thoughtless  ormean. 
Care  for  the  whole  of  us. 
Body  and  soul  of  us,  — 
Saints  make  him  the  goal  of  us, 
Father  Kileen! 

Harry  S,  Lewis. 


i8i 


SONG   FOR  THE   EVEN-TIDE 

The  day  is  dropping  off  to  sleep, 
And  homeward  lag  the  dusty  sheep, 

Leaving  the  bars  behind; 
The  stars  keep  watch  in  the  southern  sky, 
With  a  cricket's  song  for  a  lullaby. 

And  the  voice  of  the  vesper  wind. 

Now,  when  the  shepherds  of  the  vale 
Were  gathering  for  the  evening  tale. 

With  sallies  fancy-free, 
Bo-Peep  lay  watching  the  clouds  above. 
She  was  dreaming  of  one  she  used  to  love, 

"And  whether  he  dreams  of  me!" 

Paul  T.  Gilbert. 


182 


PASTORAL 

Look  out,  my  love,  across  the  quiet  scene; 
The  sun,  just  lost  behind  the  purple  hills. 
Makes  rosy  all  the  West;  the  soft  pines  lean 
Together  whispering   as    the   night    breeze 
wills. 

Here  in  the  lilacs  by  the  cottage  door 

The  thrush's  rippling  love  notes  swell  and 

cease; 
And  drowsy  bees,  with  day's  last  golden 

store. 
Hum  off  into  the  universal  peace. 

The  air  that  fans  your  cheek  is  redolent 
With  all  the  honeyed  breath  of  countless 

flowers. 
Turn  now  and  look  into  my  heart,  content 
To  lay  your  hand  in  mine,  for  Love  is  ours. 

R.  M.  Cleveland. 


183 


DAISIES 

Golden  daisies  in  the  meadow, 
Gently  sway  and  nod  and  beckon; 
"Come  and  play,"  they  seem  to  say. 
And  a  throng  of  laughing  children 
Troop  in  answer  through  the  grasses, 
Trample  down  the  daisies  gay. 
Pluck  them,  pelt  them  at  each  other; - 
Still  they  gaily  nod  and  beckon. 
Softly  saying,  "Come  and  play." 

Carl  H.  P.  Thurston. 


184 


MOON-FAIRIES 

Out  in  the  garden  and  over  the  lawn  — 

Everywhere,  everywhere  dancing; 

SHpping  and  gHding  between  the  tall  elms, 

Fair  on  the  rivulet  glancing  — 

See  where  the  moon-fairies  play  in  the  dark — 

Play  till  the  dawning  of  day, 

Then  over  the  meadows,  and  over  the  hills, 

Silently  vanish  away! 

They  say  every  moon-fairy  drops  from  her 

hair 
A  diamond  come  from  the  sky; 
And  when  with  the  dawning  the  dancers 

depart, 
There  on  the  grass  they  will  lie. 
The  sun  will  cast  glory  upon  them  at  last; 
The  blue-birds  will  carol  anew; 
And  bright  in  the  garden,  and  fresh  on  the 

lawn. 
Will  sparkle  the  fairy-dropt  dew. 

E.  K.  Morse. 
185 


BALLADE  OF  THE   DREAMLAND 
ROSE 

Where  the  waves  of  burning  cloud  are  rolled 
On  the  farther  shore  of  the  sunset  sea, 
In  a  land  of  wonder  that  none  behold, 
There  blooms  a  rose  on  the  Dreamland  Tree. 
It  grows  in  the  garden  of  mystery 
Where  the  River  of  Slumber  softly  flows. 
And  whenever  a  dream  has  come  to  be, 
A  petal  falls  from  the  Dreamland  Rose. 

In  the  heart  of  the  tree,  on  a  branch  of  gold, 

A  silvern  bird  sings  endlessly 

A  mystic  song  that  is  ages  old, 

A  mournful  song  in  a  minor  key. 

Full  of  the  glamour  of  faery, 

And  whenever  a  dreamer's  ears  unclose 

To  the  sound  of  that  distant  melody, 

A  petal  falls  from  the  Dreamland  Rose. 


Dreams  and  visions  in  hosts  untold 

le  m 

1 86 


Throng  around  on  the  moonlit  sea 


BALLADE   OF    THE   DREAMLAND   ROSE 

Dreams  of  age  that  are  calm  and  cold, 
Dreams  of  youth  that  are  fair  and  free, 
Dark  with  a  loved  heart's  agony, 
Bright  with  a  hope  that  no  one  knows, 
And  whenever  a  dream  and  a  dream  agree, 
A  petal  falls  from  the  Dreamland  Rose. 

l'envoi 

Princess,  you  gaze  in  a  reverie 
Where  the  drowsy  firelight  redly  glows; 
Slowly  you  raise  your  eyes  to  me  — 
A  petal  falls  from  the  Dreamland  Rose. 

W.  Brian  Hooker. 


187 


THE  BALLADE  OF  THE  GOLDEN 
HORN 

We  were  mariners  long  agone, 

Or  ever  the  ages  termagant 

Had  sent  the  gold  from  the  gonfalon. 

That  flew  at  our  fore-peak  arrogant. 

And  whenever  the  breezes  hesitant 

Dropped  and  died  in  the  silent  morn, 

The  bent  oars  swung  to  "Byzant!  Byzant! 

Hark  away  for  the  Golden  Horn." 

And  when  the  last  of  the  isles  were  gone, 
And  the  warm  wind  singing  and  odorant 
Through  the  silver  channels  bore  us  on, 
Stirring  in  mainsail  and  top-gallant, 
High  on  the  ratline  and  spar  aslant 
We  climbed,  and  sang  in  the  splendid  morn; 
And  oh,  but  our  song  was  jubilant 
There  in  the  light  of  the  Golden  Horn. 

The  Soldan  of  Antioch  hath  won 
The  city  of  silver  and  adamant, 

i88 


BALLADE   OF    THE  GOLDEN   HORN 

And  our  high-venturing  galleon 

Was  burned  with  a  fire  excoriant, 

There  by  the  sea-gates  resonant. 

And  we  are  wounded  and  wretched  and  worn 

And  know  the  whips  of  the  flagellant 

Beyond  the  curve  of  the  Golden  Horn. 

ENVOI 

Princes,  ye  whom  the  years  enchant, 
Ye  too  will  drink  of  the  dregs  of  scorn. 
Ye  will  sell  your  souls  for  a  new  Byzant 
And  die  for  a  glimpse  of  the  Golden  Horn. 

Leonard  Bacon. 


189 


A  PARTING  WORD 

We've  worked  a  little,  Jim,  my  boy, 

And  thumbed  our  primers  through, 
And  walked  a  bit,  and  talked  a  bit. 

And  smoked  a  pipe  or  two. 
I'll  not  deny  we've  made  mistakes, — 

And  noticed  some  too  late. 
(It's  better  to  be  honest,  Jim, 

In  adding  up  the  slate.) 

We've  kicked  our  heels  against  the  fence. 

And  talked  about  the  teams. 
And  criticized  the  ways  of  Yale, 

About  like  most,  it  seems. 
We've  had  our  glass  with  Louis,  too 

And  sung  our  little  song. 
And  ended  with  our  hearts  —  I  hope  — 

About  where  they  belong. 

The  shoulder-rubbing  has  been  long, 

But,  if  we've  stood  the  test, 
It's  taught  us  how  to  judge  our  friends 

By  what  sticks  out  as  best. 

190 


A    PARTING    WORD 

And  if  we  haven't  learned  to  win, 
We've  learned  at  least  to  try. 

We've  lots  to  thank  the  place  for,  Jim, 
Before  we  say  good-by. 

E.  L.  Fox. 


191 


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